Shooting Sunshine, page 6
The passenger’s door flung open, and Sarah planted both feet on the ground. “Speak to Verna Rishel. She’ll likely have ideas. We’ll have better luck tomorrow.” With a cheerful wave, she hurried away and was immediately intercepted by two skipping girls who wrapped themselves in her apron, almost knocking her over.
No wonder her cousin was unruffled. Sarah had a home and a family. She had a life. All Darcy had was this photo essay, and so far, it was a bust. Ire sizzled in her chest like Korean barbecue but far less delicious, and she peeled out of the parking lot. She hadn’t expected the keys to the kingdom, but she thought she’d get a sit-down with the owner. Instead, she was laughed out of the lobby by a flannel-clad baboon.
Her quads twitched. She desperately needed a run. A run would clear her head and help her regroup. Today was a fluke. Darcy King did not storm around waiting rooms and drive like a crazy person. Darcy King was an accomplished photographer who knew how to talk to people in delicate circumstances. She listened, and she put her subjects at ease. The farmhouse appeared, and the sickening memory of weeping by lamplight closed her throat. Darcy King did not cry in front of strangers!
Seriously, what was the matter? Since she arrived, she’d been an emotional wreck. The tears must be connected to her grandmother. After all, she’d only just gotten to know Mammi Leora…to love her…when she lost her. Maybe she never truly mourned. But did she have to start now? The timing was rather inconvenient.
She tucked the car beside the barn and sprinted to her room. In a heartbeat, she was dressed in leggings and out the back door. Slinging a foot onto a stump, she bent over one knee, considering her route. Old Cowan Road was more heavily traveled than she liked. Accustomed to New York City parks, she didn’t enjoy dodging traffic. She caught her foot for a quad stretch and settled on the other direction. She’d head past the barn and down the farm lane between fields. Maybe she’d eventually have to veer onto paved roads, but maybe not. She wasn’t used to trail running, but her shoes were sturdy, and more than anything, she needed to thoroughly exhaust herself.
She started out fast, darting between fruit trees and along the vegetable garden, where Verna sliced a hoe between rows. Leaping a puddle, she hit the dirt road, setting a quick but comfortable pace. She passed the barn and an open shed housing buggies of varying styles. The scene would make a pretty photo for a calendar or jigsaw puzzle, but she was after more than picturesque. She needed story, and for story, she required access. But how?
Beyond more outbuildings, the scent in the air changed from manure to mud and moss, and she came to a bridge over a rushing creek. She dashed across the slatted surface and down the lane a quarter mile or so until she came to a pleasing, single-story structure at the edge of the woods. It was a modern rustic cabin with natural wood siding and floor-to-ceiling windows. The roof angled up in front, creating a protected overhang beneath which Adirondack chairs and a firepit invited lounging. Once past, she swiveled to check out the side elevation…
And smacked solidly into someone emerging from the woods.
Her ankle turned, and she shrieked, grabbing onto the first thing that presented itself—a muscly arm sheathed in blue. Her shins tangled with long legs, her sneakers bumped boots, and for the briefest second, a hand threaded around her waist, and her feet left the earth. Something hard and plastic dug into her side. Whipping around her head, she smushed her nose into a massive shoulder and sucked in the scent of cotton and…
Please, oh, please don’t let that smell be sky.
“Whoa. Easy. Are you all right?”
Did Samuel think she was a horse or a human? She touched down in a rocky rut and stumbled sideways, breathing hard. Her heart whammed against her rib cage with considerably more force than the short jog merited. She planted her hands on her knees and bent over, testing her tweaked ankle. “Why did you burst from the forest like a crazed animal?”
“Why are you in my yard?”
“I’m running, obviously. Or I was running.” She straightened and, dividing her thick ponytail in two, tugged it tight. Her skin tingled beneath the jogging tank and leggings she knew hugged every curve. Again, she was fully clothed. And again, she felt completely exposed…though a tiny part of her didn’t hate it. “And what do you mean your yard?”
He opened a hand toward the house. “My workshop. And sometimes my home. I split my time between here and the big house, depending.”
So, wait. Where did he actually sleep? “Depending on what?”
“Whether the person staying with my mother is trustworthy. You passed.” He shifted focus to the object in his hands, a scuffed and battered transistor radio.
What was an Amish guy doing with a radio? “Are you supposed to have that?”
He settled onto the low, cement porch and fiddled with the antenna which was held together with duct tape. “It’s battery operated.”
She followed, crunching through river stones surrounding the chairs and firepit. “It plays music.”
“I’m a grown man, and this is my house.” Plopping his elbows onto his knees, he gazed up with a crooked smile. “What do you plan to do? Tell my mother?”
“I might. She’s been very welcoming.” She picked up a smooth white rock and tossed it from hand to hand. “Why didn’t you tell her you fixed my car?”
“Why aren’t you married?”
She fumbled the rock, and it hit the ground with a crack. “That’s intrusive and irrelevant and doesn’t make any sense, anyway.”
He set the radio to one side and tipped back on his hands, stretching long legs. “Likewise.”
His navy work pants were threadbare and dusty at the knees. The heavy, steel-toed boots were weathered, too. Soon, those pants would tear, and his knee would poke through. She swallowed hard. Next, she’d imagine him in a kilt. She shook her head and rotated her foot at the ankle. Still intact, even if her pride wasn’t. The disastrous factory visit gnawed at her. She needed the run. “Sorry for crashing into you.” She turned to go.
“Why were you running so fast?”
Dropping back her head, she let out a lung-cleansing sigh. He hated her project. If she told him about the morning, then he’d just laugh.
“Visit to Schmucker’s go badly?” he asked.
She interlaced her fingers behind her back and dipped down, masking her irritation with a hamstring stretch. “What do you care? And how do you know where I went?”
“Amish grapevine. Nathaniel Schmucker not keen on the idea?”
“I wouldn’t know!” A breeze gusted, and with sweat cooling, she shivered, peeking at him from between her knees. “His patronizing, bully of a gatekeeper didn’t let me inside.”
He snapped to sitting. “Dale Fischer treated you poorly?”
“He called me girlie and slammed the door in my face.” Coming upright, she rubbed her goose-pimpled arms. She was angry, yes, but more, she was afraid. Sure, this was only her first attempt, but what if she fared no better on her second or third. Good-bye, coveted staff position.
“I see.”
Bracing herself, she got a jolt of surprise when he didn’t appear smug or mocking. Head bowed and elbows on knees, he almost looked…prayerful.
His lips tucked under at the corners, and he glanced up from clasped hands. “Did you happen to notice solar paneling on Schmucker’s roof?”
“I don’t think so.” She was so anxious upon arrival and so furious when she left, she barely noticed anything. Not good for a photographer whose primary job was observation. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”
A bird tweeted in a sound as insistent as a police siren, but instead of a headache, it sparked a glimmer of hope. Searching, she spotted a red-breasted robin hopping through the field. Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, it seemed to say.
Samuel stood and stared off toward the ridge. “Why don’t you and I go back tomorrow? I’ve been meaning to talk to Nat about solar installation. You give me a ride, and in exchange, maybe I can convince him to sit down with you.”
Mouth agape, she stared while the robin doubled down on springtime singing. “Why would you do that?”
Shrugging, he bent over and retrieved the radio. “That’s not how you treat a woman. Dale Fischer should know better. Besides, just because I don’t like what you’re doing doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be done.”
She choked back a bitter retort. Sniping at the guy offering help was about as productive as punching holes in a parachute. Besides, she was mighty curious to know how he thought a woman should be treated. “Thank you, Samuel.” Her collarbones heated. Speaking his name for the first time felt…familiar. Intimate, even. Had he noticed? Or was he too busy making mental lists of the many ways she and her photography were immoral?
He turned a knob on the radio, and static hissed like a whisper. Startled, he jerked up his head, and a slow grin crept across his face. “You’re welcome. Darcy.”
With her own name echoing in her ears, she sprinted away, eager to leave him before he left her. A flock of birds took off from the field, wings flapping like the applause of children. In a single moving mass, they shifted in shape—first a cloud, then a heart, and then a sinuous stream like a winding river. She pounded her feet against dirt, and her whirling mind focused. Which did she dread more: the conversation with Nathaniel Schmucker or forty-five minutes in a car with Samuel? Blood rushed to her skin, prickling across her chest and down her spine. She pumped her arms and dashed toward the ridge. The sound of the creek melded with the rush of blood in her ears. Maybe a better question was…which was she more excited about?
Chapter Seven
Less than twenty-four hours later, Darcy slapped on a socialite’s smile while inwardly cursing Dale Fischer and the hideous, fake-brick wall.
Samuel shook the manager’s beefy hand and said a few words in Pennsylvania Dutch.
Thereupon, Fischer whisked them off to meet the factory owner without once calling her girlie. Or sugar. Or babe.
“How did you do that?” she muttered from her seat at the conference room table.
Interlacing his fingers, Samuel extended his arms until the knuckles cracked. “Dale grew up Amish. I reminded him of certain events from our running around days. He owes me.”
Of course, she knew about Rumspringa when Amish young people experimented with the world outside their community. She always thought the rebellion was exaggerated for reality TV, but Samuel’s gaze held secrets. Maybe she was wrong.
When he’d met her at the car earlier, he made a critical appraisal through the window and frowned.
She bristled. Her appearance was perfectly respectable. Modest, even.
He yanked open the passenger’s side door. “Did you bring pie?”
Was every day pie day around here? “No.”
“Cookies?”
The morning sun was bright, and the day promised to be mild. She dug in her bag for sunglasses. “I have to bribe them with baked goods?’
He slid into the seat and closed the door soundly. “It’s not a bribe. It’s a gift. Don’t you know the difference?”
At his insistence, they jostled down the farm lane past his studio to the sweet little cottage where his sister Nora and her family lived. He ran inside and returned with a container of Nora’s legendary sugar cookies.
The long drive was blessedly normal. Comfortable, even.
Clear of the farm, he reached for the stereo knob. “Mind if I switch on the radio?”
Swallowing more nosy questions about the rules, she shook her head. A country western station wasn’t her first choice, but she tuned out the music and silently rehearsed what she’d say if she finagled an audience with Nathaniel Schmucker.
Finally, the moment arrived. Beneath buzzing fluorescent lights in a conference room that might as easily have been in Long Island as in Amish country, Darcy explained her project in deepening detail, reflecting her growing commitment to an endeavor that seemed like it might never get off the ground.
Nathaniel Schmucker was a short, squat man about her father’s age, with keen eyes and a contagious laugh. He offered coffee and enjoyed several cookies before politely declaring that while he appreciated Darcy’s enthusiasm, his men had a quota.
Samuel nudged the container Nathaniel’s way. “Have another. Nora made them.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The gentleman took a hearty bite, raining delicate golden crumbs.
Leaning back in his chair, Samuel caught his hands behind his head. “I might be wrong, but wasn’t Leora Mast your schoolteacher?”
Stubby fingers raked through a salt-and-pepper beard, dislodging cookie bits. “She certainly was. Why?”
In New York society, family connection was everything. Who would have guessed farm country would be the same? Then again, why was she surprised? Doesn’t everyone crave connection? Darcy leaned forward, smiling. “She was my grandmother.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Nathaniel’s whole demeanor shifted. Twinkly eyed, he helped himself to another cookie. “Do you know, Teacher Leora taught me arithmetic using nightcrawlers?”
Samuel chuckled. “Sounds about right from what I hear.”
“I couldn’t figure out subtraction for the life of me. That pesky minus sign was a splinter in my backside. Finally, Teacher Leora sent me down to the creek to dig up twenty worms.” He planted both hands on the table and bounced in the squeaky office chair. “I came back with a handful and found her drawing a chalk circle on the big slate stone by the outhouse. ‘Put the worms in the circle,’ she said, ‘and when three wiggle out, you come inside and tell me how many are left.’ On she went like that, and in no time, I was multiplying and dividing, too. Eventually ran out of worms and had to use roly-poly bugs. They were less cooperative.” Chortling, he slapped a hand on his thigh and gazed through a window at the bustling factory floor. “Where would I be without mathematics?”
Nathaniel had been cordial from the start, but now, he was positively jolly. Sensing an opening, Darcy inhaled deeply. “I have tremendous respect for you and your workers. I won’t photograph faces, and I’ll stay well out of the way. Our readers will see the quality of your products, and I think they’ll learn something. I certainly have.”
The lines around Nathaniel’s eyes deepened. “I suppose a few pictures won’t hurt none.” He pushed back his chair. “Come along. I’ll tell the men.”
Darcy scurried to follow. At the door, she paused and caught Samuel’s gaze. Thank you, she mouthed.
He dipped his head and smiled.
She managed not to faint. With every passing day, he was more of a puzzle. He escorted her, wrangled access, and even thought to bring up Mammi Leora, but he was working an angle, too, right? Childhood memories definitely buttered up the boss. Steeling mushy insides, she whipped around and entered the factory floor.
“Wait there, Samuel,” Nathaniel called over one shoulder. “I’ll be back in two shakes to hear about this solar business.”
Beneath a mile-high ceiling, the skeletons of five campers stood in a row like dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History. Men swarmed each one, moving in and around one another in a swift, smooth ballet. Colorful tubes coiled from above, connecting heavy-duty tools to a power source. Pneumatic nail guns whiz-popped, and drills whined. The contrast between the men’s plain dress and the high-tech machinery was arresting. Fortunately, light filled the room, and she could easily shoot without a flash. She couldn’t risk distracting the workers.
At a tidy desk, Nathaniel took up a microphone and cleared his throat. “Don’t mean to interrupt, fellas—lunch is in half an hour, after all—but we have a guest. Miss Darcy King will be taking photos for a New York City magazine. She’s Leora Mast’s granddaughter, for those of you who knew her. Don’t you worry—she’ll keep her distance and leave your ugly mugs out of the pictures. You won’t even know she’s here.”
Darcy checked her watch. “They eat lunch at ten?”
“Shift starts at five. These fellas are home by two or three in the afternoon to do their farm chores.”
“So, they effectively pull double shifts.”
Nathaniel puffed out his chest. “Helps to have a stake in the company. We operate on a profit-share model. Our men have more than a daily wage motivating good work. They got ownership.” He replaced the microphone and ran a handkerchief over the dusty desk. “Out in those huge factories in Indiana where I learned the trade, boys don’t got nothing like that. They run all day, rushing to make their quota so they can get home. Ain’t nobody running on my floor. They work fast, but they take pride in what they build. Watch your step now. Parts come flying in from overhead.”
Darcy drew a lungful of air, scented with machine oil and sawdust. She pulled out her camera, peered through the viewfinder, and disappeared. Details she hadn’t seen with the naked eye came into focus. A bicycle parking area beyond an open garage door with straw hats and orange safety vests looped over handlebars. A stack of unfinished cabinet doors waiting to be stained. A wide metal slide extending from the second level, and a man at the top pushing down tubs of purple and pink electrical wire like they were children on a playground. So many hands. Calloused, work-worn hands running computer-aided design software and operating power saws.
Opaque skylights offered no clear view of the sky, despite the fact the vehicles the men built transported Englischers to the great outdoors. Though the workers didn’t seem stressed, the energy was different here than at the Rishel’s farm where the Lapp boys loped from barn to field and back. These men were focused with no time spared for idle chatter.
From a storage bay to one side, a single man carried the entire side of a camper. The huge piece of fiberglass rested on one shoulder, and the man’s arm thrust through what would become a window. Lightweight and backed with foam, the piece was made of no natural material, though plenty of hand-crafted wooden components would comprise the interior. With the man’s face concealed, she tracked the walking wall, triggering the shutter in bursts, and jumping when someone brushed past her. She twisted the lens, pulling out for a wide shot.
No wonder her cousin was unruffled. Sarah had a home and a family. She had a life. All Darcy had was this photo essay, and so far, it was a bust. Ire sizzled in her chest like Korean barbecue but far less delicious, and she peeled out of the parking lot. She hadn’t expected the keys to the kingdom, but she thought she’d get a sit-down with the owner. Instead, she was laughed out of the lobby by a flannel-clad baboon.
Her quads twitched. She desperately needed a run. A run would clear her head and help her regroup. Today was a fluke. Darcy King did not storm around waiting rooms and drive like a crazy person. Darcy King was an accomplished photographer who knew how to talk to people in delicate circumstances. She listened, and she put her subjects at ease. The farmhouse appeared, and the sickening memory of weeping by lamplight closed her throat. Darcy King did not cry in front of strangers!
Seriously, what was the matter? Since she arrived, she’d been an emotional wreck. The tears must be connected to her grandmother. After all, she’d only just gotten to know Mammi Leora…to love her…when she lost her. Maybe she never truly mourned. But did she have to start now? The timing was rather inconvenient.
She tucked the car beside the barn and sprinted to her room. In a heartbeat, she was dressed in leggings and out the back door. Slinging a foot onto a stump, she bent over one knee, considering her route. Old Cowan Road was more heavily traveled than she liked. Accustomed to New York City parks, she didn’t enjoy dodging traffic. She caught her foot for a quad stretch and settled on the other direction. She’d head past the barn and down the farm lane between fields. Maybe she’d eventually have to veer onto paved roads, but maybe not. She wasn’t used to trail running, but her shoes were sturdy, and more than anything, she needed to thoroughly exhaust herself.
She started out fast, darting between fruit trees and along the vegetable garden, where Verna sliced a hoe between rows. Leaping a puddle, she hit the dirt road, setting a quick but comfortable pace. She passed the barn and an open shed housing buggies of varying styles. The scene would make a pretty photo for a calendar or jigsaw puzzle, but she was after more than picturesque. She needed story, and for story, she required access. But how?
Beyond more outbuildings, the scent in the air changed from manure to mud and moss, and she came to a bridge over a rushing creek. She dashed across the slatted surface and down the lane a quarter mile or so until she came to a pleasing, single-story structure at the edge of the woods. It was a modern rustic cabin with natural wood siding and floor-to-ceiling windows. The roof angled up in front, creating a protected overhang beneath which Adirondack chairs and a firepit invited lounging. Once past, she swiveled to check out the side elevation…
And smacked solidly into someone emerging from the woods.
Her ankle turned, and she shrieked, grabbing onto the first thing that presented itself—a muscly arm sheathed in blue. Her shins tangled with long legs, her sneakers bumped boots, and for the briefest second, a hand threaded around her waist, and her feet left the earth. Something hard and plastic dug into her side. Whipping around her head, she smushed her nose into a massive shoulder and sucked in the scent of cotton and…
Please, oh, please don’t let that smell be sky.
“Whoa. Easy. Are you all right?”
Did Samuel think she was a horse or a human? She touched down in a rocky rut and stumbled sideways, breathing hard. Her heart whammed against her rib cage with considerably more force than the short jog merited. She planted her hands on her knees and bent over, testing her tweaked ankle. “Why did you burst from the forest like a crazed animal?”
“Why are you in my yard?”
“I’m running, obviously. Or I was running.” She straightened and, dividing her thick ponytail in two, tugged it tight. Her skin tingled beneath the jogging tank and leggings she knew hugged every curve. Again, she was fully clothed. And again, she felt completely exposed…though a tiny part of her didn’t hate it. “And what do you mean your yard?”
He opened a hand toward the house. “My workshop. And sometimes my home. I split my time between here and the big house, depending.”
So, wait. Where did he actually sleep? “Depending on what?”
“Whether the person staying with my mother is trustworthy. You passed.” He shifted focus to the object in his hands, a scuffed and battered transistor radio.
What was an Amish guy doing with a radio? “Are you supposed to have that?”
He settled onto the low, cement porch and fiddled with the antenna which was held together with duct tape. “It’s battery operated.”
She followed, crunching through river stones surrounding the chairs and firepit. “It plays music.”
“I’m a grown man, and this is my house.” Plopping his elbows onto his knees, he gazed up with a crooked smile. “What do you plan to do? Tell my mother?”
“I might. She’s been very welcoming.” She picked up a smooth white rock and tossed it from hand to hand. “Why didn’t you tell her you fixed my car?”
“Why aren’t you married?”
She fumbled the rock, and it hit the ground with a crack. “That’s intrusive and irrelevant and doesn’t make any sense, anyway.”
He set the radio to one side and tipped back on his hands, stretching long legs. “Likewise.”
His navy work pants were threadbare and dusty at the knees. The heavy, steel-toed boots were weathered, too. Soon, those pants would tear, and his knee would poke through. She swallowed hard. Next, she’d imagine him in a kilt. She shook her head and rotated her foot at the ankle. Still intact, even if her pride wasn’t. The disastrous factory visit gnawed at her. She needed the run. “Sorry for crashing into you.” She turned to go.
“Why were you running so fast?”
Dropping back her head, she let out a lung-cleansing sigh. He hated her project. If she told him about the morning, then he’d just laugh.
“Visit to Schmucker’s go badly?” he asked.
She interlaced her fingers behind her back and dipped down, masking her irritation with a hamstring stretch. “What do you care? And how do you know where I went?”
“Amish grapevine. Nathaniel Schmucker not keen on the idea?”
“I wouldn’t know!” A breeze gusted, and with sweat cooling, she shivered, peeking at him from between her knees. “His patronizing, bully of a gatekeeper didn’t let me inside.”
He snapped to sitting. “Dale Fischer treated you poorly?”
“He called me girlie and slammed the door in my face.” Coming upright, she rubbed her goose-pimpled arms. She was angry, yes, but more, she was afraid. Sure, this was only her first attempt, but what if she fared no better on her second or third. Good-bye, coveted staff position.
“I see.”
Bracing herself, she got a jolt of surprise when he didn’t appear smug or mocking. Head bowed and elbows on knees, he almost looked…prayerful.
His lips tucked under at the corners, and he glanced up from clasped hands. “Did you happen to notice solar paneling on Schmucker’s roof?”
“I don’t think so.” She was so anxious upon arrival and so furious when she left, she barely noticed anything. Not good for a photographer whose primary job was observation. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”
A bird tweeted in a sound as insistent as a police siren, but instead of a headache, it sparked a glimmer of hope. Searching, she spotted a red-breasted robin hopping through the field. Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, it seemed to say.
Samuel stood and stared off toward the ridge. “Why don’t you and I go back tomorrow? I’ve been meaning to talk to Nat about solar installation. You give me a ride, and in exchange, maybe I can convince him to sit down with you.”
Mouth agape, she stared while the robin doubled down on springtime singing. “Why would you do that?”
Shrugging, he bent over and retrieved the radio. “That’s not how you treat a woman. Dale Fischer should know better. Besides, just because I don’t like what you’re doing doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be done.”
She choked back a bitter retort. Sniping at the guy offering help was about as productive as punching holes in a parachute. Besides, she was mighty curious to know how he thought a woman should be treated. “Thank you, Samuel.” Her collarbones heated. Speaking his name for the first time felt…familiar. Intimate, even. Had he noticed? Or was he too busy making mental lists of the many ways she and her photography were immoral?
He turned a knob on the radio, and static hissed like a whisper. Startled, he jerked up his head, and a slow grin crept across his face. “You’re welcome. Darcy.”
With her own name echoing in her ears, she sprinted away, eager to leave him before he left her. A flock of birds took off from the field, wings flapping like the applause of children. In a single moving mass, they shifted in shape—first a cloud, then a heart, and then a sinuous stream like a winding river. She pounded her feet against dirt, and her whirling mind focused. Which did she dread more: the conversation with Nathaniel Schmucker or forty-five minutes in a car with Samuel? Blood rushed to her skin, prickling across her chest and down her spine. She pumped her arms and dashed toward the ridge. The sound of the creek melded with the rush of blood in her ears. Maybe a better question was…which was she more excited about?
Chapter Seven
Less than twenty-four hours later, Darcy slapped on a socialite’s smile while inwardly cursing Dale Fischer and the hideous, fake-brick wall.
Samuel shook the manager’s beefy hand and said a few words in Pennsylvania Dutch.
Thereupon, Fischer whisked them off to meet the factory owner without once calling her girlie. Or sugar. Or babe.
“How did you do that?” she muttered from her seat at the conference room table.
Interlacing his fingers, Samuel extended his arms until the knuckles cracked. “Dale grew up Amish. I reminded him of certain events from our running around days. He owes me.”
Of course, she knew about Rumspringa when Amish young people experimented with the world outside their community. She always thought the rebellion was exaggerated for reality TV, but Samuel’s gaze held secrets. Maybe she was wrong.
When he’d met her at the car earlier, he made a critical appraisal through the window and frowned.
She bristled. Her appearance was perfectly respectable. Modest, even.
He yanked open the passenger’s side door. “Did you bring pie?”
Was every day pie day around here? “No.”
“Cookies?”
The morning sun was bright, and the day promised to be mild. She dug in her bag for sunglasses. “I have to bribe them with baked goods?’
He slid into the seat and closed the door soundly. “It’s not a bribe. It’s a gift. Don’t you know the difference?”
At his insistence, they jostled down the farm lane past his studio to the sweet little cottage where his sister Nora and her family lived. He ran inside and returned with a container of Nora’s legendary sugar cookies.
The long drive was blessedly normal. Comfortable, even.
Clear of the farm, he reached for the stereo knob. “Mind if I switch on the radio?”
Swallowing more nosy questions about the rules, she shook her head. A country western station wasn’t her first choice, but she tuned out the music and silently rehearsed what she’d say if she finagled an audience with Nathaniel Schmucker.
Finally, the moment arrived. Beneath buzzing fluorescent lights in a conference room that might as easily have been in Long Island as in Amish country, Darcy explained her project in deepening detail, reflecting her growing commitment to an endeavor that seemed like it might never get off the ground.
Nathaniel Schmucker was a short, squat man about her father’s age, with keen eyes and a contagious laugh. He offered coffee and enjoyed several cookies before politely declaring that while he appreciated Darcy’s enthusiasm, his men had a quota.
Samuel nudged the container Nathaniel’s way. “Have another. Nora made them.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The gentleman took a hearty bite, raining delicate golden crumbs.
Leaning back in his chair, Samuel caught his hands behind his head. “I might be wrong, but wasn’t Leora Mast your schoolteacher?”
Stubby fingers raked through a salt-and-pepper beard, dislodging cookie bits. “She certainly was. Why?”
In New York society, family connection was everything. Who would have guessed farm country would be the same? Then again, why was she surprised? Doesn’t everyone crave connection? Darcy leaned forward, smiling. “She was my grandmother.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Nathaniel’s whole demeanor shifted. Twinkly eyed, he helped himself to another cookie. “Do you know, Teacher Leora taught me arithmetic using nightcrawlers?”
Samuel chuckled. “Sounds about right from what I hear.”
“I couldn’t figure out subtraction for the life of me. That pesky minus sign was a splinter in my backside. Finally, Teacher Leora sent me down to the creek to dig up twenty worms.” He planted both hands on the table and bounced in the squeaky office chair. “I came back with a handful and found her drawing a chalk circle on the big slate stone by the outhouse. ‘Put the worms in the circle,’ she said, ‘and when three wiggle out, you come inside and tell me how many are left.’ On she went like that, and in no time, I was multiplying and dividing, too. Eventually ran out of worms and had to use roly-poly bugs. They were less cooperative.” Chortling, he slapped a hand on his thigh and gazed through a window at the bustling factory floor. “Where would I be without mathematics?”
Nathaniel had been cordial from the start, but now, he was positively jolly. Sensing an opening, Darcy inhaled deeply. “I have tremendous respect for you and your workers. I won’t photograph faces, and I’ll stay well out of the way. Our readers will see the quality of your products, and I think they’ll learn something. I certainly have.”
The lines around Nathaniel’s eyes deepened. “I suppose a few pictures won’t hurt none.” He pushed back his chair. “Come along. I’ll tell the men.”
Darcy scurried to follow. At the door, she paused and caught Samuel’s gaze. Thank you, she mouthed.
He dipped his head and smiled.
She managed not to faint. With every passing day, he was more of a puzzle. He escorted her, wrangled access, and even thought to bring up Mammi Leora, but he was working an angle, too, right? Childhood memories definitely buttered up the boss. Steeling mushy insides, she whipped around and entered the factory floor.
“Wait there, Samuel,” Nathaniel called over one shoulder. “I’ll be back in two shakes to hear about this solar business.”
Beneath a mile-high ceiling, the skeletons of five campers stood in a row like dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History. Men swarmed each one, moving in and around one another in a swift, smooth ballet. Colorful tubes coiled from above, connecting heavy-duty tools to a power source. Pneumatic nail guns whiz-popped, and drills whined. The contrast between the men’s plain dress and the high-tech machinery was arresting. Fortunately, light filled the room, and she could easily shoot without a flash. She couldn’t risk distracting the workers.
At a tidy desk, Nathaniel took up a microphone and cleared his throat. “Don’t mean to interrupt, fellas—lunch is in half an hour, after all—but we have a guest. Miss Darcy King will be taking photos for a New York City magazine. She’s Leora Mast’s granddaughter, for those of you who knew her. Don’t you worry—she’ll keep her distance and leave your ugly mugs out of the pictures. You won’t even know she’s here.”
Darcy checked her watch. “They eat lunch at ten?”
“Shift starts at five. These fellas are home by two or three in the afternoon to do their farm chores.”
“So, they effectively pull double shifts.”
Nathaniel puffed out his chest. “Helps to have a stake in the company. We operate on a profit-share model. Our men have more than a daily wage motivating good work. They got ownership.” He replaced the microphone and ran a handkerchief over the dusty desk. “Out in those huge factories in Indiana where I learned the trade, boys don’t got nothing like that. They run all day, rushing to make their quota so they can get home. Ain’t nobody running on my floor. They work fast, but they take pride in what they build. Watch your step now. Parts come flying in from overhead.”
Darcy drew a lungful of air, scented with machine oil and sawdust. She pulled out her camera, peered through the viewfinder, and disappeared. Details she hadn’t seen with the naked eye came into focus. A bicycle parking area beyond an open garage door with straw hats and orange safety vests looped over handlebars. A stack of unfinished cabinet doors waiting to be stained. A wide metal slide extending from the second level, and a man at the top pushing down tubs of purple and pink electrical wire like they were children on a playground. So many hands. Calloused, work-worn hands running computer-aided design software and operating power saws.
Opaque skylights offered no clear view of the sky, despite the fact the vehicles the men built transported Englischers to the great outdoors. Though the workers didn’t seem stressed, the energy was different here than at the Rishel’s farm where the Lapp boys loped from barn to field and back. These men were focused with no time spared for idle chatter.
From a storage bay to one side, a single man carried the entire side of a camper. The huge piece of fiberglass rested on one shoulder, and the man’s arm thrust through what would become a window. Lightweight and backed with foam, the piece was made of no natural material, though plenty of hand-crafted wooden components would comprise the interior. With the man’s face concealed, she tracked the walking wall, triggering the shutter in bursts, and jumping when someone brushed past her. She twisted the lens, pulling out for a wide shot.
