"A lush and intriguing Amish story of past secrets, love, faith and cultural clashes!"
Reviewed by Audrey Lawrence
Posted May 28, 2012
Inspirational Amish
Summer is a time of past efforts coming into fruition and so
it was for the Lantz family living in the bountiful and
beautiful Amish community of Willow Ridge, Missouri. While still wearing black clothes as a sign of grieving for
the loss of her husband, Jesse, Miriam had found a good and
satisfying way to take care of her twin daughters, Rachel
and Rhoda. Doing what she does best, baking and cooking for
others, she partnered with her good friend, Naomi Brenneman,
and together they have made the Sweet Seasons Bakery Café a
thriving success with its delicious and comforting food. Naomi's handsome son and a gifted carpenter, Micah, also
loves eating at the café. He loved the food almost as much
as having the opportunity to be with his beloved Rachel.
With a happy contentment, Rachel and Micah had promised each
other to be together but had not as yet publicly announced
their engagement as was customary in Amish communities. As Rhoda and Rachel cheerfully served customers in the busy
café, Rachel went to serve a young woman with dyed witch
black hair dressed in tight black jeans and black tank top
that left no doubt that her tattoos were real. But, when the
gothic dressed woman raises her eyes to stare at her, Rachel
was shocked to see that her eyes were exactly like her
twin's. Feeling totally befuddled, she quickly runs to the
kitchen. As she tells her mother about the woman, she is
greatly surprised by mother's reaction as she immediately
goes to the girl's side and seems to go in a stage daze when
a small bit of pink cloth falls out of the stranger's bag. Could this really be Rebecca? Caught off-guard by a flash
flood in 1993, the young mother Miriam had to handle her
three triplets to get them to safety. As wee Rebecca has
wiggled out of her arms, she thought she had lost her
forever. Was it possible that this stranger called Tiffany
is her long lost daughter? As intricately and uniquely developed as flowers opening in
summer, the very talented Charlotte Hubbard (Naomi King) has
crafted a fascinating tale of past secrets, romance and
cultural clashes that instantly pulls you deep into this
heart-warming story right from its startling beginning to
its very moving and satisfying conclusion. As the first book
in the "Seasons of the Heart" series, Hubbard sets out an
inspiring and captivating tale that puts a fresh and
realistic spin on Amish romance stories. Readers who enjoy the works of Beverley Lewis and Jan Karon
will be thrilled to find that Hubbard's work is of similar
ilk. The storyline and characters are realistic and they
grow on you as they work through what is happening in their
lives, or where their actions and intentions sometimes don't
always go as planned and more secrets get unearthed. The
author deftly shows a path for understanding how to discern
God's will from what people feel they want to do. This is
best reflected in Marian's prayers for God's guidance as she
struggles with the direction Bishop Hiram Knepp wants her to
go and Micah's determination to restore a family and learn
from outsiders while striving to be true to the values of
his community. While I thoroughly enjoyed this book as a standalone story,
I am looking forward to September 2012 for the next in the
series, "Autumn Winds" to find out more about what happens
to Rachel. SUMMER OF SECRETS is a delicious reading treat,
complete with mouth-watering recipes from the Sweet Seasons
bakery, that you will not want to miss!
SUMMARY
Summer Of Secrets Summer has come to Willow Ridge, but Rachel Lantz is looking
forward to a whole new season in her life--marriage to
strapping carpenter Micah Brenneman, her childhood
sweetheart. When a strange Englischer arrives in the café
claiming to be the long-lost sister of Rachel and her twin
Rhoda, Rachel feels the sturdy foundation of her future
crumbling--including Micah's steadfast love. As the days heat up and tempers flare, Rachel and Micah will
learn that even when God's plan isn't clear, it will always
lead them back to each other. . .
ExcerptChapter One"And what shall I bring for your dinner, Micah?" Rachel
Lantz grinned at the broad-shouldered blond seated at the
back table of the Sweet Seasons Bakery Café. "We've got an
order or two of Naomi's meat loaf left, and Mamma's chicken
and noodles—and jah, those stuffed peppers ya like so
well." Although he knew their daily menu by heart, he pretended to
study the specials she'd written on the dry-erase board this
morning. His hair showed a slight ridge from his straw hat,
now hung on the nearby wall peg, and she felt the heat of
his sturdy body after his morning of building cabinets with
the other Brenneman boys, in their shop. It was his
steadfast strength that appealed to her, even if he took his
sweet time deliberating over decisions. "I'm thinkin' I had
the hash browns Tuesday at lunch and Thursday for breakfast
. . . hmmmm . . . kinda warm for those heavy slabs of meat
loaf . . ." Rachel stood as close to him as she dared, watching her twin
sister, Rhoda, set two plates of the meat loaf in front of
Bram and Nate Kanagy at a table across the way. "The stuffed
peppers, then? Leah picked us a basket of red ones, fresh
this morning. They look mighty gut, smothered in all that
cheese." Micah glanced at his brothers, Seth and Aaron, who were
piling their plates high at the salad bar. "Jah, but I'd
rather have a double order of hugs with a side of your
kisses, Rachel. When can you dish me up some of those?" he
murmured. When his deep green eyes sparkled up at her, Rachel's cheeks
tingled. He'd finally proposed to her last week! Would they
hint at their plans to marry at next weekend's ice-cream
social, or maintain Old Order Amish tradition and keep it a
secret? No doubt the rest of the summer would pass by mighty
fast if she had dresses and household linens to make—
quicker than this carpenter decided on his lunch, it would
seem! Yet how could she fault Micah for pondering his menu
choices each day, when it gave him a few extra minutes to
gaze up at her with such fondness lighting his handsome face? His older brother, Seth, sat down across the table and
forked up a mouthful of cucumber and onion salad. "We've
gotta get back to the shop sometime today, ya know," he teased. "Ah, but time means nothin' to a fella stuck on the likes of
Rachel," Aaron, the youngest Brenneman, chimed in. "Sweeter
than this wonderful-gut frog-eye fruit salad, she is. Like
havin' your dessert first." Rachel wound a string of her kapp around her finger,
grinning despite the heat in her cheeks. That cold, creamy
salad, made with tiny pasta BBs, was her favorite on a warm
summer day, too—not that sharing this opinion would
make Aaron stop teasing her. These brothers kept her on her
toes, but they were as solid as the lustrous tables and
chairs they'd built for the café, which served as a showcase
for their custom craftsmanship here in Willow Ridge,
Missouri. She nodded at the lady at table two, who tapped
her empty iced tea glass. "Back in a minute, Micah. By then
you oughtta know—" "Bring me whatever ya think looks best, Rache," he said as
she started toward the counter of filled pitchers. "With a
side of green beans and a big slice of your lemon icebox pie." "Bring me some of that pie, too." "Me three," his other brother called after her. "Jah, jah," Rachel murmured as she refilled all the glasses
at table two. She smiled politely at this trio of older
English ladies, who had sacks from the adjoining quilt shop
beside their feet. "Will ya be havin' anything else today?" "Is that a rhubarb pie in your bakery case?" "Yes, ma'am. Mamma baked it fresh this mornin'." Rachel
flipped through her ticket tablet to figure their bill,
noting the van full of customers pulling up outside. This
summer's tourist business would be brisk, if today's lunch
crowd was any indication. "Wrap that pie, then. I'll take it home to my
husband—as his reward for not coming along with us
today." Her friends giggled and continued chattering as Rachel
strode toward the front counter. While she put the pie in a
carryout box, she called her order through the serving
window. "A plate of the peppers for Micah, side of green
beans. Three pieces of the lemon icebox pie—and ya got
any more rhubarb pies, Mamma? I'm boxin' your last one here." Her mother glanced up from the work island in the middle of
the kitchen, where she was slicing an assortment of fruit
pies for a customer's family reunion this evening. She'd
rolled her black sleeves above her elbows and her face was
flushed from working in the heat of the ovens since three
this morning. "I'll have to look, honey-bug. Rhoda just took
down an order for ten dozen zucchini corn muffins, plus
sandwich buns, goin' to a barbecue. And Naomi's been
scurryin' to make more meat loaf and the fillin' for another
pan of peppers." Naomi Brenneman, her mother's partner in the café—and
Micah's mamm—flashed her a brown-eyed smile. "What a
day it's been! Busier than Leah's bees, we are." "Des gut, ain't so?" Rachel fetched a lemon pie from the
refrigerator and quickly plated the three biggest wedges.
"Better than wonderin' if we'd make a go of it, like when we
opened this time last year, Mamma." "Can ya catch table three, Rachel?" her twin called from the
crowded doorway. "I'll be pullin' four tables together for
all these folks comin' in from the senior center's van." The Kanagy brothers jumped up from their lunch to assist her
sister as Rachel delivered Micah's meal and the slices of
lemon pie. "Back in a few, boys," she murmured. "Help
yourselves to tea and lemonade refills, will ya?" Inhaling deeply to catch her breath, Rachel wondered if they
should hire another girl for the summer . . . Naomi's
daughter, Hannah, perhaps. She stopped beside table three
and quickly reminded herself not to judge a book by its
cover: the young woman who focused on the laminated menu
sported short, spiky hair dyed witch-black. She wore tight
black jeans with a matching tank top that revealed two
tattoos on her back. And was that a little barbell piercing
her eyebrow? "Oh, gimme the meat loaf, I guess," she muttered. "I'd recommend the stuffed peppers or the smothered hash
browns. If ya can wait, though, we'll have more meat loaf in
maybe fifteen minutes. Sorry," Rachel replied. Thank
goodness not many of their English guests looked like
something the cat dragged in. Or something left over from a
Halloween party gone to the Devil, judging from those black
fingernails and the heavy silver rings linked by chains to a
leather band around her wrist. "Fifteen minutes? You gotta be—" The girl's curse word made Rachel grip her tablet to keep
from dropping it. But when this guest raised her face to
stare rudely, with blue eyes lined in coal-black eyeliner
and heavy mascara, Rachel's mouth dropped open: Was it her
imagination, or was that Rhoda beneath all that makeup? Why, scrubbed clean and framed in a fresh kapp, that could
well be the face she saw in her own mirror each morning! Her
breath left her in a rush, as though her mare had kicked her
in the chest. Rachel backed away, stammering. "Excuse me,
but I—I'll be back to take your order in—" The bottom dropped from her stomach as she rushed toward the
kitchen. Didn't matter that Micah and her friends might be
wondering about the girl's outburst, or about the way Rachel
ignored two guests who called for their checks. She hurried
through the Dutch door, seeking sanctuary—from what,
she wasn't sure. She fanned herself with her tablet, too
upset to help Naomi take a big pan of sizzling meat loaves
from the oven.
"Rachel? Ya look like you've seen a ghost!" Her mother's
knife paused halfway across the cherry pie she was cutting. What could she say? Rachel felt silly for that little flash
of imagination, thinking the girl in black looked like . . .
yet her stomach had tied itself in a knot and her pulse
pounded as though warning her of something ominous.
"I—I don't know what to—" She shook her head to
clear it. "The girl at table three, by the window,
well—she looks exactly like Rhoda. Or me, if ya don't
count her ghouly clothes and hair." Naomi's eyebrows rose as she glanced at Rachel's mother.
Mamma stepped sideways to gaze into the café's crowded
dining room, and then she walked slowly toward the serving
window for a better view. The color left her face. Her knife
hit the floor. "How on God's good earth—? Can it be?"
Her expression vacillated between confusion and disbelief
and . . . fear.But what would her mother have to be afraid
of? Mamma wrung her apron in her hands, and with a whimper
like a startled pup's she headed into the main room of the
café. Rachel looked at Naomi, feeling stupid and inconsiderate. "I
shoulda stayed out there. Didn't mean to come in here
upsettin' Mamma, what with her finally recoverin' from Dat's
passin'." "Let's go with her, then," her mother's best friend said.
"Even if Miriam doesn't need our help, I'm thinkin' your
sister could use a hand with that group that just came in." Dear God, give me the strength to handle this. My toes feel
ready to curl right through my shoes. Miriam Lantz approached the girl in black slowly, feeling
trapped inside a bubble that kept out the café's loud
chatter and the aromas of cooked beef and onions. Were her
mind and eyes playing tricks on her? Rachel had described
the face beneath that spiky black hair to a tee, and while
Miriam knew she was staring, she couldn't help herself. She
had no words for the whirlwind of emotions that raged in her
heart and soul, just as the river had raged in a flash flood
eighteen years ago . . . Once again her leg muscles clenched with the effort of
clambering up that slick, muddy riverbank during a sudden
downpour, as adrenalin and terror raced through
her—but not as swiftly as that swollen river had risen
up its banks. Her arms ached with the memory of clutching
her frightened toddlers, Rachel and Rhoda, as she cried out
to Rebecca, who had wiggled out of her grasp. Nothing could
match the horror—the abject helplessness—she'd
felt when the wild water snatched her baby girl and carried
her downstream. Her little body, in a pink dress, was never
found. Friends going door-to-door in the towns down-river
returned without her precious child. Most in Willow Ridge
had filed this incident far back in their memories, and her
two remaining girls had been too young at the time to recall
that fateful day. But a mother never forgets. And she never forgives herself .
. . forever wonders if God took her baby as a sign that she
was too inept or unworthy to be raising His children. Wouldn't a good mother have had better control of her girls?
Wouldn't a competent wife have paid closer attention to the
rapid rise of those flood waters? Her marriage to Jesse
Lantz had never been quite the same afterward, for even as
he, too, grieved the disappearance of their daughter, a
cloud had hovered over their home as the years went by and
she'd been unable to conceive again. Miriam swallowed hard. Her heart hammered in her chest as
somehow one foot found its way in front of the other, past
guests who asked for more coffee or their checks. Though she
found the young woman's spiky dyed hair and heavy makeup
distasteful—and why would anyone have a skull tattooed
on her shoulder—? Miriam couldn't look away from those
pale blue eyes and the facial structure the girls had gotten
from their dat. How she wished Jesse were alive to help her now! This
Englisher was a brazen one: she stared outright at Miriam's
sweaty black dress, her kapp, and the dark apron smeared
with flour and filling from a day of baking pies. Her
attitude announced itself as blatantly as that tight, skimpy
shirt accentuated breasts the same size as her sisters'.
This sort of confrontation wasn't something her other girls
had ever gloried in; wasn't something most Plain folk
tolerated or brought on. But she had to find words. She was the adult here . . . and
there was a chance she was mistaken. Vaguely aware that Naomi and the girls were seating a large
group behind her, Miriam cleared her throat. She clasped her
hands to keep from crumpling her apron. "I—I don't
mean to be nosy, but—" The girl smirked. "Okay, look, I said I wanted meat loaf,
but forget it. I can't wait that long—" "—when my daughter
Rachel remarked on how close ya resemble Rhoda—"
"—so lemme outta here, will ya?" the young woman
demanded as she grabbed a Walmart sack from the chair beside
her. "This was a huge mistake. My bad." Miriam sidestepped quickly when the girl stood up so fast
her chair struck the one behind her. Why was she so angry?
And why had she come here in the first place? Willow Ridge
was a quiet little community where Plain folk farmed and
sold their handmade items to supplement their income.
Tourists with piercings, wearing black leather wristbands,
rarely ate here. When a wad of pink fabric fell from the sack, the young
woman swore and grabbed for it, but Miriam snatched it from
the floor just that fast. Every fiber of her body vibrated
with recognition of that little dress before this ungracious
stranger could shove it back in the bag. Miriam cried out,
clutching this memento of the worst day of her life.
"Dear God, can it be? It's nothin' short of a—it's a
miracle!" Before Miriam realized it, she was laughing and
crying hysterically while she embraced the young woman. The girl jerked away in disgust. "Hey, I didn't come here to
star in a big scene!" "Mamma, are you all right? Whatever's makin' ya act so
crazy-like?" Rhoda glared at the girl in black as she flung
an arm around Miriam's shoulders, while Naomi stepped up
beside her, as well. The entire café had gone quiet: the
Kanagy boys and Naomi's sons had stepped closer, and all the
customers lingering over lunch had stopped eating. Rachel,
too, watched her mother warily from that big table of
customers who'd just sat down. Swiping at her eyes and still shaking, Miriam studied the
young woman more closely. If she were going to demand
answers she had to ask the right questions, even if her mind
was in such an excited muddle she couldn't believe what she
was seeing. "Where'd ya get this little dress?" was all she
could whisper. Those black-lined eyes flashed, yet their crystal-blue color
softened for a moment. Then she glared around the dining
room. "Okay, look—show's over! Got it?" she announced
loudly. Her gaze lingered on Naomi and Rhoda, but she didn't
tell them to leave. Once the Brenneman boys and their
friends returned to their tables, the girl in black took her
seat again. She pointed to the chair across the table. Don't forget about that help I asked for, God. Miriam sat down, dazed. She smiled gratefully when Naomi
poured her a glass of lemonade and then eased away, to wait
on the folks who'd just come in. Nothing could possibly have
prepared her for this moment: nearly eighteen years she'd
dreamed of it, not daring to hope it would ever come to
pass. But there was no denying the little dress she'd sewn
with her own hands, and she couldn't help herself: she
buried her face in the faded, yellowed fabric. It smelled
faintly of cedar, but what did that matter? The only other
person on this earth with a connection to this dress was now
seated across from her. Looking as flummoxed as she felt. "I didn't believe what my old man told me." The young woman
leaned on the tabletop to nail Miriam with a doubtful gaze.
"I was going through Mom's stuff after . . . after her
service last week. Found this at the very bottom of her
cedar chest. That's when Dad said I wasn't their
natural-born daughter—that he rescued me from a tree
being washed down the Missouri River in the flood of '93." The young woman's eyes misted over and she looked away. "I
don't know what to believe, now that I'm here. But it's,
like, obvious they've kept some really huge secrets from me."
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