A christmas engagement, p.1
A Christmas Engagement, page 1
The characters and events in this book are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
A CHRISTMAS ENGAGEMENT
Copyright © 2021 by Linda Byler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Print ISBN: 978-1-68099-621-0
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68099-682-1
Cover design by Koechel Peterson & Associates
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
About the Author
Chapter One
HER NAME WAS ELIZABETH, BUT EVERYONE called her “Liz,” which was a bit classier than “Lizzie,” and what she preferred. “Lizzie” was old-fashioned, a name for middle-aged mothers and grandmothers. She wasn’t so young, it was true, but being called “Liz” gave her a sense of identity, a person definitely not a “Lizzie.”
She slid down the seat, crossed her arms, put her chin on her chest and decided to pout. This fifteen-passenger van filled with market girls could be an endurance test, the way these fifteen and sixteen year olds carried on. She knew it was all on account of Matthew Zook in the front seat, the tall handsome young man who owned and operated the “Dutch Eatery” at the huge Amish market in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
Liz had worked as a cook, cashier, and waitress for eight years, doing a little (or a lot) of everything to keep the place running smoothly. She worked twelve-hour days tirelessly, faithfully. She loved her job, no matter who owned the restaurant, and found herself able to get along well with the two previous owners. But Matthew was another story.
Matthew was all of twenty-four years old, too young and too self-confident to be embarking on a venture in which he was clueless. He knew next to nothing about the place, had likely paid a fortune for the lease, was driven, intense, and extremely hard to get along with. Not to mention the fact that this gaggle of air-headed young girls that he attracted made her want to jump out the window.
He was ridiculously handsome, immensely self-centered, and grated on her nerves with his grosfeelich (proud) ways. But she was determined to remain loyal to the business, knowing if she left, the future of the Dutch Eatery was in serious jeopardy.
The Queen Street Market was an immense brick building, a former warehouse renovated to accommodate vendors selling everything from soft pretzels to leather goods. There was a beautiful produce stand, complete with timber framework, colorful displays of red, green, and yellow apples, pears, bananas, leafy greens, broccoli, and cauliflower. The produce stand was the center of the market, surrounded by smaller stands selling meats, cheeses, and sweet treats. There was a deli, a sub shop, and a few stands for handmade quilts and baby clothes.
Someone, usually a well-to-do non-Amish, or “English” as the Amish referred to outsiders, purchased the building for markets like this one, put the money into most of the remodeling, then leased each separate stand to vendors, many of them Amish. It was a good way to earn money and not forbidden by the church, as long as everyone respected the ordnung (rules), dressing and acting accordingly. There was always a bakery, the skills of Amish housewives put to good use, the loaves of bread and rolls, pies, cakes, and dozens of cookies and doughnuts turning into a tremendous volume of sold items. The markets buzzed with energy, the Amish folks enjoying the satisfaction of honest work, and the visitors appreciating the selection of unique goods.
At the Queen Street Market, scents of fresh pastries mixed with the aromas of roasting smoked ham, rotisserie chickens, and of course, the jumble of mouthwatering dishes from the Dutch Eatery. Liz loved all of it, hopping off the van between five and six in the morning, eager to turn on the grill and the oven, get the coffeemakers going. She loved the repetition of everyone knowing their place, everyone pulling together as a team. The day would go seamlessly if everyone did their share, and normally Liz would be the one to prod here, remind there, careful to be aware of damaged egos.
But Matthew was changing everything. He rearranged the kitchen, rewrote the menu, bought tablecloths for all the tables, and ordered peeled potatoes for home fries, which consequently turned out mushy, a fact that Liz’s usual customers did not appreciate. She told him repeatedly that he should switch back to regular potatoes, but last week when she brought it up again, she saw the flash of anger in his eyes, the set of his jaw.
Today, she was determined to do better. Today, she would go his way, respect his authority, even if she had to fry the mushy potatoes till they were mashed potato patties. If he lost customers, well, it wasn’t her worry. She was only an employee.
Three of the nine girls in the van worked for Matthew and every one of them was there because of him. They seemed to have no interest in hard work, but took every opportunity to get his undivided attention, which was maddening.
Today though, she would start off the day focused on God. She had prayed in faith, told Him she needed his help to get through the day, to stay by her side and let only soft, mellow words out of her mouth. Helpful, encouraging words, no matter the circumstances.
She went straight to the restroom, checked her appearance to be sure her hair and covering were in order before starting the day. She grimaced at the puffiness around her eyes, the dullness in the blue eyes that used to sparkle like diamonds. Her hair was brown streaked with blond, or blond streaked with brown, whichever one she preferred to think about. She had full lips, a wide mouth that once was given to quick smiles.
Matthew had made her life more difficult in recent months, but he wasn’t the one responsible for stealing her joy, her youthful exuberance.
Only a couple of years ago her wedding had been planned, her blue dress sewn, pressed and hung in the closet, awaiting the day she and her beloved had planned together. November 7. A Thursday. But on September 13, he had begun to act strangely, agitated. By the time the evening was over, there were no wedding plans, nothing, only a hollow place where her heart used to be, the death knell of her love a lonesome gong that rang through her mind for the better part of a year.
And here she was, partially healed, mostly okay with the past, her faith strengthened and deepened by the polishing her spiritual life had received, her vessel shining like gold after having been put through the fire.
But it still hurt that, after breaking off their engagement, he then married her best friend at the time. It had taken him exactly eight weeks to ask Naomi for a date. She had said yes eagerly and gone on to enjoy a whirlwind romance, setting a date for their wedding while Liz still reeled from the sudden rejection.
Matthew searched her face as she entered the kitchen. She ignored him, pushed past to turn on the heat below the grill. Her green dress hung neatly to a few inches above the floor, her white apron accentuating her slim figure.
“Liz.”
“Hmm?”
“Let’s keep an eye on the potatoes today. I heard a customer say they were overcooked yesterday.”
Irritation surged through her entire body, turning her cheeks pink. How many times had she told him the customers were unhappy about the stupid potatoes? And now he was informing her as if it was the first he’d heard of it, and worse, implying it was her fault. Without glancing in his direction, she told him as long as he bought peeled potatoes, he’d have mush.
“But I want to take this place to the next level,” he said, leaning against the stainless steel table, crossing his arms—those tanned, muscled arms the other girls whispered about.
She couldn’t contain her annoyance.
“Next level? You’ll do well to rake in half the profit Bennie did.”
Silence hovered uncomfortably.
“You don’t like me, do you?” His voice was calm, which only made her feel more upset.
She kept her back turned, lifting a package of loose sausage from the commercial refrigerator.
“It doesn’t matter if I like you or not. You’re the boss.” She reached to the top shelf for a heavy stainless steel kettle, set it on the stove, and turned. She met his eyes, a mixture of gray and green, surrounded by heavy eyelashes.
“You really think I should go back to unpeeled potatoes, don’t you.” It was a statement more than a question.
“Yes.”
He shook his head, leaned forward and uncrossed his arms. “I just never thought they were that great.”
“It’s not about you. It’s what the customers like and what they expect. Market people don’t like change. I f a stand changes hands, the business goes downhill.”
He eyed her levelly.
“Ouch,” he said softly.
“Whatever.” She shrugged her shoulders, dumped a hefty amount of fresh sausage in the heating kettle.
“That’s an awful lot of sausage. I have to make a profit, you know.”
“Look. You want to lose customers, start skimping on the sausage in the gravy, okay?”
“But sausage isn’t cheap.”
“If you want to cut costs, get rid of the tablecloths and stop paying to get them washed and pressed every day. People don’t come here for fancy tablecloths. They come for good food and good service. Where is Priscilla with the cart from the walk-in cooler?”
“I’ll get her.”
Liz snorted in an unladylike manner, realizing how quickly her commitment to a better attitude had gone out the window. When Ruthie stuck her head through the door, Liz snapped at her about not filling the salt and pepper shakers. Matthew irritated her and her irritation was seeping into her directions to Ruthie, even after she’d been so sure her day would be infused by God’s love and compassion.
It was men in general. They all irritated her since the fateful day her love had called off the wedding and gone gallivanting off with her best friend. All men thought they had the God-given right to lord it over the weaker sex, the poor flabbergasted girls who made sheep’s eyes at them in the hopes of securing their affection. She was aware of her warped attitude and didn’t care. She had plenty of reason to dislike men. And Matthew was no exception.
She had no time to think about anything but work after that. She was focused on the breakfast preparation, sliding homemade biscuits into the oven, filling trays with bacon, barking orders to Eva, the timid new girl who was painfully slow. As the orders piled in, she was fully occupied, unaware of anything beyond the swinging doors.
She flipped eggs, pancakes, made omelets, crumbled biscuits and ladled gravy over them. Eva buttered toast and pancakes, slid orders out the window, and mostly kept her eyes on Matthew.
Liz found herself humming as she worked, her spirits lifting as she moved swiftly, feeling the rhythm of the busy breakfast shift. She laughed at Eva when she threw a sausage patty on the grill, felt herself drawn to the girl’s dry humor. When breakfast was over, she cleaned up, reminded Eva to fill the Hobart to capacity, to scrape the worst of the baked-on food from the kettles and pans.
“How’s it going?”
This from Matthew, entering the kitchen with a swagger she knew to mean only one thing: there had been a good crowd for breakfast and he was pleased with his success.
“Alright.”
She was scraping the grill top with a metal sponge clasped in tongs, the vicious cleaner a threat to anyone’s health, she guaranteed.
“Why don’t you leave that ‘til lunch is over?”
“I told you.”
“Look. That grill cleaner isn’t cheap. Leave it. Scrape it down. You can make burgers on a dark grill.
Liz worked the residue with a scraper, upended the vinegar jug without answering.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
“Do it then. Tomorrow. No grill cleaning ‘til the end of the day.”
Liz gritted her teeth, said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him flash Eva a smile, one of those devastating smiles Eva would cherish far too deeply and far too long.
“Need any help in here?” he asked in a voice as oily as unwashed hair.
“I don’t care,” Eva giggled.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Chopping green peppers.”
“Careful there, you’ll chop your pretty fingers.”
Liz wiped the stainless steel tabletop furiously. She felt the heat in her face, thought she actually might go up in flames. His ego was absolutely out of control. She pushed past him to get to the mop sink for a plastic bucket, without looking at him.
“Let me get that,” he offered.
She felt his presence, too close, too confident.
“I know what I’m doing. Just . . .” She made a shooing motion, a sort of scooping with her right arm.
* * *
By the end of the day, the numbing exhaustion had crept through her arms and legs. Clearly, there had been an increase in customers, which had served the purpose of increasing Matthew’s confidence substantially and undermining her own proclamation that he was running things poorly. Soup pots were drained, the hoagie maker was littered with sandwich-making residue, and globs of mayonnaise and mustard dotted the countertops.
She had done without her normal fifteen-minute breaks. During cleanup, she told him in clipped tones he needed to hire another girl. With Thanksgiving and Christmas coming on, the cold would bring more hungry shoppers, the people out and about over the holiday season.
“I can’t afford to pay more help.”
“You can’t afford not to.”
“Why is that?”
“We can’t keep up the quality of the service Bennie had with only four of us.”
“Bennie, Bennie, Bennie. That’s all I hear. You must think the guy was really something.”
“He had a very successful business.”
“Then why did he quit?”
“His family. His wife is not in the best of health. She didn’t like market at all, stayed home with the five children, and it was too much for her.”
“That’s why I never married.”
Liz had to be very careful, putting another slice of toast on top of the bacon, tomato, and lettuce, before taking up the serrated knife to cut it diagonally. She sat down at a table, grimaced as she saw the stains on the tablecloth, frowned at the empty napkin dispenser, the smudges on the glass salt and pepper shakers.
“Look at this. Would you want to sit down at one of these tables?”
He sat down across from her, too close and much too confident. His hands were tanned, well formed, the nails clipped and clean.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Look at the dirty tablecloth, the napkin holder, everything. Where were the girls?”
“Which one? Eva helps you. Ruthie and Priscilla are kept busy.”
Liz took a large bite out of her sandwich, chewed with a hand over her mouth, tapping lightly. She caught him watching her, couldn’t help responding when his eyes crinkled with amusement. How could one man contain every masculine asset? No wonder he irritated her with his supreme sense of self. Seriously, the man was so handsome. She swallowed, took another large bite, didn’t bother covering her mouth at all. She was too hungry, had had no time to eat all day, and that really was illegal.
She told him as she popped the top off a can of Coke and poured it over ice, drank thirstily, and burped quietly into a napkin before starting in on the second half of her sandwich.
“I’m not hiring another girl.”
“Then I quit.”
“You can’t do that, Liz.”
“I can, and I will. You can’t run out of homemade soups and sliced meat before the dinner rush. You can’t have a menu if you can’t deliver the food. It’s that simple.”
He sighed. “You do nothing for a man’s confidence.”
“Oh, you have plenty of that.”
He did hire another person, an overweight aging Amish woman from below Quarryville who flopped into the van one morning, crossed her hands across her rounded stomach, and fell asleep the minute they hit the interstate highway.
Her name was Annie, and she turned out to be the most refreshing person Liz had ever met. She wore her white market apron like a clean, billowing sail, wore colorful dresses with puffy sleeves and snaps down the front. Her black Crocs made little squeaks as she moved swiftly from the freezer to fridge to stove and back again. She talked constantly in a loud tone, but she never dwelt on herself, only on others. A great band of interesting people made up her world, and she loved freely, unabashedly. She talked about her husband, her neighbor down the street, her miniature poodle, her married girls and their husbands, her grandchildren, especially her special one, a girl with Down syndrome named Margaret.
“Margaret, Liz. Now really. They call her Margie. As in margarine. I call her Blue Bonnet. Get it, Liz? As in Blue Bonnet margarine.”
She fastened her twinkling brown eyes on Liz’s face, waiting for her response, and Liz was awash in genuine laughter. That’s what Annie was. Refreshing.
