Wait a second. She’d seen that look before and more than once. Maybe he wasn’t laughing at her. Or rather, not only her. Dollars to doughnuts, he was laughing at her van—this two-toned monster of a vehicle, this green-and-tan cereal box on wheels, she was about to mount like a Clydesdale and drive away. She’d lost count of the men who thought she couldn’t handle this car. Was Jonas the Amish guy one of them?

With as much dignity as she could summon, she climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The van coughed and sputtered a percussive chug-chug-chug. Threading the needle between rows of cars, she drew near the line of buggies. Did she have enough room to squeeze through? The last thing she wanted was to spook the horses and start a stampede. She massaged the brake and crawled within inches of him, expertly negotiating the limited space.

He offered the hint of a nod. Maybe he couldn’t drive, but she sure as heck could. She lifted her chin in response.

Still smiling, he touched the brim of his hat, shook his head, and turned to the buggy.

What did that nod mean? And then why did he shake his head? Was he mocking her or not? The guy’s expression was like Ancient Greek. Utterly inscrutable.

Driving home, she barely noticed the tree-lined streets and quaint Victorian houses of her hometown. Why were the Amish so compelling? Their allure ran deeper than jewel-toned shirts, straw hats, and suspenders. They seemed to possess some secret knowledge—as if they’d inherited the key to living happily without constantly scrambling to get ahead.

Or was it just that they could handle horses? Horsemanship was sexy as all get out.

She’d seen movies about the Amish and had, of course, been surrounded by a fairly large community for most of her childhood. But what did she truly know about their lives?

When outsiders asked, she could attest that yes, the Amish really rode around in buggies, and yes, they lived without electricity, and no, she had absolutely no idea what was up with those beards. Jonas, she noted, didn’t sport that characteristic full beard and no mustache look. Interesting. Her listener’s curiosity piqued, she’d typically wrap up her Amish symposium with a story one of her father’s colleagues relayed.

The elderly professor returned home one afternoon to find her Amish housekeeper sitting at the kitchen table, head in her hands. When asked what troubled her, the girl blanched. “I turned a knob on that box over there.” She pointed to the radio with a trembling finger. “I know my action was a sin, but please, can you tell me…what sort of instrument is a symphony?”