She loved that story, but she’d never really thought about its implications. Imagine not knowing what a symphony was. Although she’d grown up near the “simple folk,” she recognized now she had no idea what their lives were truly like. They were real people, not costumed characters at a tourist attraction. Probably, their existence wasn’t simple at all. Life would be tough without modern conveniences.

Who needs them? Chest thrumming with back-to-basics purism, she rolled down the window. Give me the simple life. Lots of time to slow down and get in touch with what’s really important.

She pictured acres of fields to be plowed without tractors. Piles of dishes to wash by hand—probably without hot running water. Lots of physical labor to fill that time. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Jonas sure didn’t get those guns working out at a gym.

With a sharp turn off the main road, she entered the woodsy landscape of her childhood. Pulling up to her house, she cataloged all she’d miss were she Amish. No automatic garage door openers. No trusty camper van. She hopped out and unloaded her Farmers’ Market booty, already tasting that whoopie pie. Such a bummer she forgot her fries. Still, no way would she go back with Rebecca’s mother staring daggers across the market.

Inside, the kitchen blasted an air-conditioned welcome. No AC on an Amish farm, but plenty of good food, she wagered. She grabbed a carton of milk and the whoopie pie. Pulling out her phone, she smiled at the voicemail alert. No cell phones for the Amish. Add that gadget to the list. “Two messages.” Her voice rang in the empty kitchen. She plopped on a chair and kicked off her sandals. “Somebody loves me.”

A slightly squished whoopie pie is still a delicious whoopie pie. She balled the sticky plastic wrap and savored her first bite. With a sigh of delight, she tapped the message button.

“Tessa, sweetie, it’s Mom. This morning, we moved to the rental house. You should see the cactus garden—it’s spectacular. Dad’s already best friends with the town librarian, and I discovered the most wonderful recipe for salsa verde. It’s just beautiful out here. Maybe you can visit for our anniversary in August? Oh, don’t forget to water my asparagus. Call me.”

A glob of cream lodged on her soft palate, and she spluttered. How could she have forgotten? This year marked her parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary. What in the world would she get them?