Chapter One from Star of Wonder
After a deadly dull Monday morning of filling small plastic containers with colored sugars and Christmas jimmies, Lizzie Zehr loaded them onto her wheeled cart and headed into the main room of Promise Lodge’s new bulk store. It was boring work, all that scooping and labeling—repetitive and downright lonely, being stuck back in the warehouse by herself.
But compared to slaving in her older sister Maria’s bakery or, for years before that, running the household for their eldest, crippled sister, Malinda, it was a piece of cake.
And because Dale Kraybill was paying her, it was freedom. This job was her ticket to independence, an escape from the two bossy sisters who’d been running her ragged for most of her eighteen years. Their parents had passed when she was very young, so Lizzie’s sisters had raised her as best they could—and they expected her to be grateful. She was, of course. But she was also really tired of being at their beck and call.
Lizzie’s thoughts shifted into a higher gear the moment she spotted the guy who was talking to Dale. The two fellows were hanging wooden signboards, which caught her eye because of their sparkly gold stars—but the shimmer of their glittery paint paled the moment the younger fellow turned around. In his green paisley shirt, red jeans, and backswept black hair, he looked anything but Plain, and when he met her gaze through his red-framed glasses, Lizzie immediately knew they were soul mates. Like her, this free spirit was gnashing at the bit and refusing to conform to the religious limitations he’d been raised with.
Like her, he wanted out.
“Hey there,” he said. His voice, barely audible from across the cavernous room, spoke volumes to Lizzie’s restless heart.
Afraid to say something stupid, she merely nodded and held his gaze. She heard the secretive whisper of soft, small objects hitting a hard surface—or maybe it was the feathery swishing of angels’ wings—
“Lizzie, watch what—you’re spilling jimmies all over the floor!” Dale cried out.
She blinked. She had no memory of picking up a container, just as she didn’t realize she’d been squeezing it so tightly that the lid had popped off. The sight of red and green jimmies bouncing off her bare feet—she wore flip-flops year-round to show off her painted toenails—was suddenly the funniest thing she’d ever seen. As Lizzie sprinted into the warehouse for a broom, her laughter filled the store.
Her life was finally taking a turn for the better. She just knew it.
With the girl’s laughter still dancing in his head, Raymond Overholt tried to refocus his thoughts. If he didn’t convince Mr. Kraybill to sell his handmade plaques, his past several weeks of work would be for nothing. He’d have to return home to Coldstream with his tail between his legs, and face a long, dreary lifetime of milking his dat’s cows. Running a dairy was honest, necessary work but Raymond didn’t enjoy spending his early mornings and late afternoons in a smelly barn disinfecting udders any more than the Holsteins liked having him around. Worse yet, if he overslept, his older brothers did the milking and left the hosing down and mucking out of the stalls for him.
“If your customers like these plaques, I can make more,” he assured the steely-haired storekeeper. “I—I really appreciate having the chance to sell them here in your new store. Our bulk market in Coldstream is dim and overcrowded with merchandise, and even if the owner there had display space, he wants nothing to do with artwork. It’s that Old Order thing.”
Mr. Kraybill smiled knowingly. “Jah, Amish stores don’t usually carry much that appears English even if they have a lot of customers come in from outside their community to shop,” he acknowledged. “But your plaques carry a solid Christmas message—‘Wise men still follow His star’ and the lyrics to ‘We Three Kings’ are meaningful reminders about following our Lord’s holy light. Thanksgiving always kicks off the Christmas buying season, so we’ll give it a shot, Raymond.”
He hoped his grateful grin didn’t appear too adolescent—or desperate. Raymond gazed around the store, where a gal in a pleated Amish kapp was stocking shelves in the rear. A few early shoppers were pushing carts into the grocery section. “If you need some extra hands when things get busy these next few weeks, I’d be happy to help, sir,” he offered. “I’ve not worked in a store, but I’m gut at tallying sums and I’m a quick learner.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Kraybill said with a nod.
Raymond heard probably not in the storekeeper’s words, but he’d dealt with people’s dismissals before. If he’d dressed in dark broadfall pants with a plain shirt and suspenders—and if he’d chosen glasses with conservative frames—Kraybill might’ve taken him more seriously. But until he had no other choice than to submit to Old Order ways and join the church, Raymond was determined to wear clothing he liked.
“I’ll be back in a few days to see how my signs are selling,” he said. “Denki for giving me a chance.”
As he stepped out into the crisp November air, Raymond shook his head at his pie-in-the-sky thinking. The computerized cash register on the Mennonite storekeeper’s counter told him that tallying sums wouldn’t get him a job here, any more than his artsy individualism would.
But he’d taken a chance. He’d crafted a dozen of his barnboard creations, lavishing his attention on their shimmering stars and their calligraphic lettering. If he sold some of them, at least his brothers and Dat would have to eat their words about how, at twenty, he should be devoting his time and effort to useful work and finding a wife . . . and taking on the Amish faith. Mamm, bless her, was much more encouraging about his talent. In her eyes, however, Raymond saw the soft, unspoken wishes that her beloved youngest son would find a purposeful life.
“Hey there, Raymond! I’m Lizzie. Lizzie Zehr.”
He turned to see her jogging from the back of the store with her hand extended. As he shook it, Raymond felt a determined grip. Lizzie’s pale green eyes glimmered with mischief as she flashed him a smile.
“Your plaques are really cool, Raymond,” she continued breathlessly, “and I hope you sell every last one of them! And I hope you’ll keep trying for a job here, too, because this place will be packed with shoppers until after the holidays! Gotta get back in there and clean up my mess. Just wanted to say hi!”
Before Raymond could respond, Lizzie rushed back the way she’d come. The flap-flap-flap in her wake made him realize she was wearing flip-flops despite the snowflakes that were pinging against his face. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a high bun, tucked under a small, circular prayer covering. She wore a calf-length dress that whipped around her legs as she ran—a colorful variety of print fabrics joined at the seams with strips of coordinating solid colors.
Lizzie is Mennonite, like Dale Kraybill.
She was a few years younger than he, and her sense of wild abandon made Raymond think Miss Zehr was at loose ends about joining the church, just as he was. He wondered if she’d designed and sewn that unusual dress herself.
The little trail of red, green, and white jimmies she’d left on the ground made Raymond feel happier than he had in ages. Something told him his life had just taken a turn toward adventure!
