“Such a shame,” I say.

“A lot of Amish sell things from their homes or farmhouses now. Most of them make a pretty penny doing it. I have a three-year lease here. Time’s up in ten months.” She heaves a wistful sigh. “I love this place, but right is right, and of course the bishop has the final say. When the time comes I’ll say good-bye to it and not look back.” She laughs. “Listen to me, gossiping like some old woman.”

“It’s good to know these things,” I tell her.

We fall silent, so I move to keep the conversation flowing. “Mary and her husband were nice enough to offer me a ride to worship.”

“Well, that’s kind. Daniel and I will be there, too.”

“I hear Bishop Schrock is a good preacher.”

“Barely has to read because he keeps all of it in his head.”

“I’m planning to join the church,” I tell her.

“He’s taken in many, including a few who were lost.” Offering a small smile, she reaches out and pats my shoulder. “He believes a strong Ordnung bestows a free heart and a clear conscience. But if you came here because of Bishop Schrock, you already know that now, don’t you?”

I offer my best smile. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

“Well, a lot of the church districts have fallen to having worship every other Sunday. Bishop Schrock preaches every week. You’d be wise not to miss one.”

“I don’t plan to.”

Sighing, she looks down at the bag in my hand. “What do you have there, Kate?”

“I was wondering if you take quilts on consignment.”

“Ah! You’re a quilter.” Nodding her approval, she motions toward the rear of the shop. “Let’s take a look and see what you have.”

I follow her to an open area where a large rectangular table is set up with five chairs around it. There’s no one else present at the moment, but I know by the sheer number of quilts for sale that most days the chairs are filled by Amish women. If the walls could speak …

I set my bag on the table and pull out the two crib quilts. Laura assumes a deadpan expression, but I see her eyes light at the sight of the craftsmanship. She looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “That’s some fine work.”

“My mamm and grossmuder were quilters,” I say, trying not to feel guilty for passing someone else’s work off as my own. “I learned from an early age.”

She takes the quilt from me and runs her fingertips over it, taking in the texture of the fabric, the intricate stitching. “The colors are pretty for a little one. You just have the two?”

“I’m working on two more. One is nearly finished,” I tell her, pleased I left them back at the trailer, which gives me a reason to return to the shop. “A pink and blue tumbling block.”

“I’m happy to take these on consignment.” She tries not to look too excited, but I can tell she’s more than a little impressed. “I might be able to get two fifty or so for them.” Putting her hand on her hip, she gives me a that’s-my-final-offer look. “It’ll cost you twenty percent.”