He’s lifting the scooter bike out of the truck bed when I meet him in the driveway. “I’m Kate Miller,” I tell him.

“Christian Kempf.” We shake and then he motions toward the scooter. “What do you think?”

I give the contraption a skeptical look. “I would have preferred black.”

“Most of the Amish do around here. You could paint it.”

“Why are you getting rid of it?”

“My wife and I are Mennonite now, so we don’t need it.”

“You used to be Amish?”

His gaze moves away from mine. “Ja.”

I return my gaze to the scooter, pretend to study it, but it’s the seller I’m most interested in. “What made you decide to leave the church?”

He looks down at the ground, then he shrugs. “I’m a furniture maker and sell cabinets to the builder over at Ellenburg Center. Schrock didn’t like it and asked me to stop.”

“Must have been difficult.”

“Hard for the wife. He put us under the bann. Her friends won’t speak with her. Our daughter…” His voice trails off as if the words are too painful to utter.

I’m about to ask about Schrock’s use of Meidung, but he shakes his head. “I have a car now, so we no longer need this.” He turns his attention back to the scooter bike. “There are a few chips in the paint. Otherwise, it’s in good condition. Would you like to try it?”

I glance toward the road, where most of the snow from yesterday has melted. “Sure.”

He wheels the scooter to the asphalt and offers it to me. “Keep one foot on the platform and push off with the other.”

I take the handlebars, and keeping my left foot on the platform, I shove off with the right. It’s awkward at first, but I know immediately that it’ll be easier—and faster—than walking. I take it down the gravel road about fifty yards, make a U-turn, and come back.

“What’s your bottom dollar?” I ask.

“Like I said. Two hundred.”

“Basket’s bent,” I say, indicating the wire rack mounted on the handlebars.

“Well, I might take one seventy-five. That’s as low as I can go without getting my wife riled up.” But he grins.

I grin back. “I’ll get my cash.”

CHAPTER 9

Sunday morning dawns brilliant and cold—and with me rethinking the wisdom of bringing food to my first worship service. It’s a small concern in the scope of things, but it kept me up last night. I don’t know the congregation or its unwritten rules—and apparently there are a lot of them. I’m not even sure if my welcome will be warm.

I do, however, know the Amish, and I’m well aware that they appreciate good food. While I don’t want to draw undue attention to myself, I do want to make a good impression. Most important, I want to meet and speak with as many people as possible. When you’re Amish, food is usually a pretty decent icebreaker.

Mary and Abe Gingerich arrive ten minutes early, but I’m ready. I’ve stowed the date pudding and plastic containers in two paper bags. Grabbing both, I go through the front door and into a morning cold enough to steal my breath.