LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

bakery. The idea was that he would learn how business was done in the big city and develop some know-how and some networks at Philly’s farmers’ markets, restaurants, and supermarkets. In the meantime, he was working in the Amish diner and in construction, saving money and learning the ropes. His dream—that was the word he used, dream—was to learn enough and save enough that eventually he could own a farm and break into the city’s organic markets, especially eggs and dairy.

      “Cheese,” he said, simply. “Folks in town eat quite a bit of cheese.”

      People in Philly not only ate a lot of cheese, but they were happy to spend a lot of money for it. And they also loved buying Amish products—but there were almost no good Amish cheese lines. Joseph had a brother who’d moved to Wisconsin and done construction for some high-end cheesemakers, helping them build smokehouses, and he had learned a lot about the process. A good line of high-end Amish cheeses was, Joseph believed, an opening in the Philadelphia market.

      But the cheese idea, too, was just a means to an even bigger goal: high-end furniture. That was his long-term goal: to design and build beautiful furniture. Joseph had built furniture his whole life. He’d learned the rudiments from his father and uncle—and during his walks around Philly, he’d seen all kinds of beautiful-looking furniture in the city’s expensive boutiques. But what he’d discovered, when he finally mustered up the courage to enter those shops, was that the pieces themselves were not as well constructed as they could be.

      “I know I can make better furniture,” he said, and then caught himself. “I mean, not to brag.”

      When it was April’s turn to tell her story, she felt self-conscious. She wasn’t expecting to feel so outclassed by this farm boy. She’d thought that all Amish people did was sit around singing hymns and darning socks. What was she supposed to say in response? Hers wasn’t exactly an inspirational story about starting an organic cheese business in order to finance a luxury furniture line. Should she tell him that she was in a court-ordered NA program at the moment, and that she’d started using when she was twelve? Should she tell him how close she was to doing prison time? This Joseph was a strange combination of ambitious and naive—April was neither. But, inspired by him for a moment, she decided to go for it.

      “Well,” she said, “my dream is to play in a band.”

      April had never told anyone this. She’d hardly ever even admitted it to herself. But, now, there it was, out there. She’d revealed her deepest, most vulnerable self to this total stranger. She glanced over at Joseph, to see what he made of this confession and found him looking at her inquisitively.

      “You know . . . to play music. Sing, play guitar. Travel all around. Rock out.”

      Joseph turned away from her, and stared ahead, sitting perfectly still, a shadow over his face, lost in thought. April suddenly lost all her confidence.

      “I mean, whatever, right?” she added quickly. “I know I’m just working at a bakery right now. But like, one day, I mean. I know it’s hokey.”

      Joseph stayed silent for a moment longer than April could tolerate. And she began to reach for her phone, looking for some escape from what was becoming a rather embarrassing interaction. But then Joseph spoke.

      “I really like music,” he said.

      This comment was one of the most generic things anyone had ever said to April and yet, it made her heart jump.

      “Really?” she said, overexcitedly. “What kind?”

      “Oh,” Joseph replied, “I don’t know much about it. We don’t listen to it, you know. But we sing in church and I really like that. It’s my favorite time of the week.”

      “Something special happens when people sing together,” April said.

      Joseph turned and looked at her, as though noticing her for the first time, and said, “That’s true.” Their eyes met for a powerful second; then they both looked away abruptly, and in a way that only confirmed the power of the gaze.

      April, trying to dispel the awkwardness, spoke quickly.

      “What’s your favorite song?” she asked.

      Joseph became quiet and deeply contemplative. April giggled.

      “I mean, don’t give it too much thought . . .” she said. She was beginning to become accustomed to, and amused by, his long, serious silences.

      April looked at him slyly. He seemed to be struggling with something.

      “Well,” he finally said, “I heard this song once,” he began. And then stopped, apparently unsure of himself.

      “Tell me about it,” April urged him.

      He’d heard the song once, when he was in a Home Depot, accompanying one of his non-Amish employers on a supplies run. The moment Joseph heard the song, he loved it. But because he didn’t own a device that would replay the song, he’d never heard it again. And anyway, he wouldn’t know what song it was, even if he did find himself near a device.

      “Really?” April asked. “You never heard the song again.”

      “No,” replied Joseph.

      “You heard it only once?”

      “Yes.”

      “And when was that?”

      “Oh, about two years ago.”

      “Wow,” April said, and then got very quiet, trying to imagine what that was like: to love a song and never hear it again. And to be okay with living with such restrictions.

      “What was it, the song? What was it called?”

      “I don’t know,” Joseph said.

      April could feel herself growing agitated.

      “Oh, c’mon! Do you remember any of the words?”

      “It was about a woman from Louisiana and a man from Mississippi. Or maybe a man from Louisiana and a woman from Mississippi? I don’t remember. But it was a real fun song.”

      April reached for her phone.

      “Is it okay if I use the phone for you?” she asked, holding it up.

      Joseph laughed.

      “Sure,” he said. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

      April began typing.

      “Got it!”

      She showed him search results for an old country song, “Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man.” There was a link to a video. Joseph held his face far from it, as though he were contemplating a beautiful but dangerous insect. April giggled.

      “Wanna hear it? I can play it right now.”

      Joseph shifted in his seat.

      “Oh,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

      “Omigod, don’t be silly!” April said. “Lemme play it for you . . . if that’s, like, okay.”

      “It’s okay,” Joseph said.

      April clicked on the video. She put the phone close to his ear and she leaned in. For the next two minutes, they listened to Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn singing a flirty, twangy duet over a sexy slide guitar about how nothing, not even the big river, can keep a Louisiana woman away from her Mississippi man.

      Being so close to him, April could sense just how large and strong his body was. Their heads were only inches apart.

      April and Joseph’s eyes met and lingered comfortably for a heart-pounding two seconds. Nothing else in the world existed except that gaze.

      And then, a long silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence at all. But the opposite: an intimate stillness, similar, in fact, to the quietness shared by people who have just finished singing a harmony, who sit together listening to the strong but fading chords

Скачать книгу