The Amish Matchmaker

Book 2: Paradise Valley

by Amy Lillard

Genres: Amish & Mennonite; Christian Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance

Synopsis

In this uplifting new inspirational romance series, award-winning author Amy Lillard unites a "Widows' Club" of women who share solace, friendship, faith—and mouthwatering Whoopie Pies—in the Amish community of Paradise Valley, Missouri. Will appeal to fans of Charlotte Hubbard, Molly Jebber, Susan Lantz Simpson, and Kelly Long.



While most women her age are searching for husbands, Astrid Kauffman has chosen a different path—writing romance novels and donating her profits to her beloved Amish community. But when Astrid struggles with writer's block, she agrees to play matchmaker for Imogene Yoder, a widowed mother of rambunctious twin boys. Perhaps the diversion—and the entrée it gives Astrid to the stories among the Widows’ Club—will spark her creativity . . .



Fortunately, Astrid has just the match for Imogene: a widower she believes is the finest, most handsome man in town. In fact, Astrid realizes he's perfect . . . for herself! Soon, the plot thickens as Imogene questions what kind of marriage she really wants, and Astrid wonders what kind of matchmaker falls for someone else's match. But by letting faith guide the way, all involved may discover true love has written a far better next chapter than any of them expected . . .

Release date: September 27, 2022

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

The blinking cursor on her computer screen mocked Astrid. With each second that passed, as it appeared then disappeared once more, it seemed to be winking and asking, Why? And again, Why? And once more, Why?

If she couldn’t write the words that had been flowing so freely up until now, then why should she have special permission to use a computer in her conservative Amish community? And if she didn’t need a computer, then she surely didn’t need the solar panels her brother, Jesse, had installed in order to power the machine. If she had no more words, then those things were completely unnecessary.

And her pen name. That would have to go.

And the income. That would leave as well.

And then Astrid Kauffman also known as Rachel Kauffman, onetime author of the Willow Bend Creek Amish romance series, would have to . . .

Bake. Or sew. Or heaven forbid, get a job at one of the restaurants in town, seeing as how she could neither bake nor sew.

For as long as she had been writing, each book started the same way. There wasn’t hardly anything quite so intimidating as staring at a blank page, or computer screen, as it were, trying to make a story appear. Normally, she wrote a little bit on notebook paper in longhand, then transferred it over to the Word file that would eventually become a manuscript. She supposed that habit had come about since the first book she’d ever finished was written completely in longhand on that yellow paper that lawyers preferred.

Then, two books into her budding career as an author, she had gained special permission from the bishop of their small community of Paradise Hill. She took her first royalty check and bought herself a computer. A laptop, they called it, though she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like it sat on her lap. Most days it hid in the rolltop desk in the corner of the dining room. But on days like today when she was working—or trying to work—she placed it on top of the dining room table, sat in her customary chair where she normally ate, and instead typed out the words to make her Amish characters fall in love.

She heard the mutterings around town. She would have to be deaf not to. But the truth of the matter was jah, her uncle was the bishop. Jah, he had given her special permission. But if anyone else had asked for such permission to write, she felt confident that he would have given it to them as well. Her uncle was a generous man, and he was a fair bishop, and he knew just as well as she did—and just as well as everyone else in the community of Paradise Hill and its neighboring community, Paradise Springs—that Amish pens had been writing for The Budget and Die Botschaft for years.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that she donated a great deal of the profit she made from her books to the community itself. If she had to give up her computer, her pen name, and writing, then those donations would stop as well.

Astrid sighed and pulled her thoughts away from such matters. Thinking about donations and special permissions and laptops would not help her to write this book. She needed to keep her mind on thoughts that would help her achieve her goal.

She raised her hands above the keyboard and wriggled her fingers a bit, as if warming them up for the task at hand. She wasn’t a very good typist. She didn’t know one Amish person who was, come to think of it. But she did okay. Over the years she had found her own way of typing. It was mostly successful.

When she had words.

Astrid kept fingers poised and ready, then closed her eyes.

Lord, please give me these words today. I know I ask for much. I know I’m not worthy. But I believe You gave me this talent. And I believe You did so for a reason. Now I ask, Lord, that You help me deliver this talent to my editor on time. Amen.

Heaven help her, she couldn’t even get the words for prayers right these days.

Sarah Bauman. That was her heroine’s name. And Sarah Bauman was . . .

Not exactly the beginning to set the world on fire, but it was a beginning.

A knock sounded at the front door.

Astrid closed her eyes but to gather her patience, not to pray this time. She had finally gotten started. She didn’t need any interruptions or distractions.

Astrid stopped. That was dumb. She backspaced until she got to Dandelion Lane once again.

How was she ready for them?

Astrid tapped one finger against her chin and tried to determine what she would do if she were the teacher of rowdy boys in a one-room schoolhouse.

But nothing came to mind. Just scratch teacher off her list of possible employment opportunities that she could pursue once her editor cut her loose from this contract for being unable to fulfill her obligations and write a book.

Never mind. She would figure that out in a second.

The knock sounded again, jarring Astrid out of the flow she’d gotten into. Okay, so flow was completely overstating it. But it was a trickle, and she needed it.

And she was not getting up to answer the door when she knew that it wasn’t for her. “Jesse!”

She had heard her brother come into the house not too long ago. At the time she had suspected he was getting a snack or something to drink and that he would soon be headed back out to his workshop. But seeing as how whoever was knocking was at the door of the house, it stood to reason he was not in his workshop.

She listened for a moment, but Jesse didn’t respond. Not that that was saying much. If he was in the kitchen scrounging around for something to eat, then perhaps his mouth was full of last night’s ham.

Either way it wasn’t her concern. Whoever was at the door wasn’t there for her.

Astrid turned her attention back to Sarah and the first day of school. She couldn’t let herself get distracted. But she supposed that was the problem with having a brother who had a workshop right out front. If no one answered the door to his shop, they came straight to the house. Yet with any luck they would turn around and head back to Jesse’s shop. He really needed to get his sign up so people would stop doing that, coming to the house instead of stopping off at his workshop and not bothering her.

It’s just when the words were hard . . .

In truth, starting any new book was hard. At first she hated everything she wrote, but by chapter eight or so, she usually found her rhythm with the stories. By then the characters would present themselves for who they were and what they wanted. But things had changed with the last novel she had turned in. She had written it out of habit, “autopilot” she heard it called. The idea hadn’t excited her, her characters hadn’t occupied her every thought, the story hadn’t kept her up at night thinking about what was going to happen next. And now this book.

This book seemed especially trying. This was her third attempt to start chapter one this week. Which didn’t sound so bad if she pointed out that it was Friday. It did, however, look devastating when she mentioned the fact that she had only started working on it on Wednesday. Every word she had written between then and now she had erased.

Making matters worse, Sarah was a schoolteacher. How many schoolteachers had she written about in her series? She couldn’t remember, but more than three was at least two too many.

How was she supposed to compete in the Englisch market with the same old, same old ideas? How was she supposed to glorify God? How could she expect people to pay money for the same old book just with different names in place of the last?

No. This one would be different. She just had to be patient, be diligent, and keep writing.

That was right. She was writing and she wasn’t answering—The knock sounded yet again. Louder this time. With more urgency.

“Jesse!” She called even louder and with her own increased urgency. Jesse didn’t answer. “For pity’s sake.”

Astrid hit the save icon on her computer screen, then stomped to the front door. Who knew where her brother was? But if she was going to get any peace in this house, she was going to have to grab it by the horns herself.

She wrenched open the door at the same time loudly saying “Hill and Valley Leather Works is across—” A woman stood on the opposite side of her threshold. “—the drive,” Astrid continued, in a more normal tone of voice.

Just because this guest was a woman, and just because she didn’t have a broken harness or hitching in her hands didn’t mean that she wasn’t there to see Jesse about leather goods. But something told Astrid this woman had arrived at their doorstep for something else entirely.

“I’m here to see the matchmaker.” The woman’s voice was soft, bordering on timid, and decibels below even the plainness of her appearance.

Astrid wasn’t trying to be unkind. The woman was simply . . . unremarkable. She had hazel eyes and flat brown hair. She was neither tall nor short, not fat nor slender. The most extraordinary thing about her was the spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“I beg your pardon,” Astrid replied. For a moment she thought the woman had said “matchmaker.” That just couldn’t be. Maybe she had said “hatch maker.” Was there something out of leather called the hatch?

Or “latch maker.” Harnesses had latches, didn’t they?

The woman leaned forward and looked from side to side as if their conversation could be overheard at any moment. “I’m here to see the matchmaker.” She hadn’t exactly raised her voice, more like she said each word slowly and succinctly. Either way there was no mistaking what she wanted.

A matchmaker.

Astrid shook her head. “I’m sorry. There is no matchmaker here.”

“But . . .” The woman’s brow wrinkled, and she leaned back as if checking the house numbers. “You’re Astrid Kauffman?” It was more question than anything.

Astrid nodded. “That’s right.”

“I was told that you are a matchmaker.”

Astrid propped one hand on her hip and cocked it to the side. “Me?” It wasn’t disbelief as much as allowed disruption. She knew what she was doing, recognized it for what it was, though she allowed herself, for the time anyway, to have this distraction. Standing at the front door talking to . . . whoever this was wouldn’t put words on the paper, but since words weren’t being put on the paper in the first place . . .

The woman looked from side to side again, then leaned close once more. “Can we talk inside?”

On a normal day with normal words flowing, Astrid may have perhaps told the woman no. That she was mistaken. That she needed to be on her way. But today was not a normal day. Normal words were not flowing. And frankly she could use the intrigue. Maybe a little bit of subterfuge could boost her creativity once more.

Astrid stepped back so the woman could enter, then for good measure poked her head out the door and looked both ways. Then she shut the door behind her and motioned toward the sitting room. As they walked toward the space, Astrid caught sight of her computer sitting so mockingly on the dining room table, almost taunting her. Well, she knew how to fix that. She pulled the pocket door closed, then turned back to her guest.

“You have me in a disadvantage,” she said.

The woman whirled around to face her. She was plain all right, as plain as they come, but there was a desperation about her that set her apart. Made her seem a little wild, almost unstable. Not in a mental capacity, but as in she might do something totally against her nature. Was that why she wanted to see the matchmaker?

“How’s that?” the woman asked.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Imogene,” she said. “Imogene Yoder.”

Astrid smiled, hoping she might relax the woman a bit. The poor thing looked as if she’d been laundered with heavy starch. Extra-heavy starch. “It’s nice to meet you, Imogene. Will you sit down?” She gestured toward one of the chairs gathered around the fireplace but didn’t settle in one herself. “Can I get you something to drink?” she continued. “Water? Coffee? Tea?” Something stiff the bishop would not approve of?

Imogene shook her head. She was perched on the edge of the seat, as if at any moment it would become a large mouth and gobble her up.

Astrid decided against fetching something for herself and instead sat down opposite the poor woman. “I suppose you should start at the beginning.”

Astrid felt a small stab of conscience that she invited the woman to continue when she truly wasn’t a matchmaker. But she told herself that she had informed the woman of that when she first answered the door. She also tried to assuage her attack of morals by telling herself that allowing the woman to have her say might make her realize the folly in her request. A matchmaker was no solution for an Amish woman. Not even one as plain as Imogene Yoder. Love, Astrid had discovered early on in her career, was best left up to God.

“My—my husband died,” Imogene started.

Astrid set up a little straighter in her seat. Not perhaps where she would’ve started the story, but it did garner her attention. “Not recently?” Astrid asked.

Imogene shook her head and picked at a spot on her apron. It wasn’t a church apron by far, nor was it as worn as the everyday apron Astrid herself had donned that morning. So she was trying to put on a good impression. “About five years ago,” Imogene said.

Astrid nodded but didn’t speak. It seemed that Imogene had finally gained enough courage to tell her story, and she didn’t want to stop her now.

“My boys,” Imogene continued. “I have twin boys. They were about five at the time. And then—at the time—they accepted Abner’s death. You know, the way we do.”

Astrid murmured something that she hoped sounded encouraging and waited for Imogene to continue.

“But lately . . .” She trailed off and allowed her gaze to wander toward the window on her side of the fireplace. There wasn’t much on that side of the house, just a large oak tree and a tire swing hanging from one of its lower branches. “Lately they’ve been asking questions, and when I don’t have the answer they want, they’ve started acting out.” She gave Astrid a weak smile. At least Astrid thought it was supposed to be a smile. It was truly more of a tremble of her lips that came and went in the blink of an eye.

“They need a firm hand,” Astrid said.

Once again, Imogene nodded and picked at an invisible speck on her clothes. “That’s right,” she quietly agreed. She didn’t need to continue for Astrid to realize that Imogene didn’t have a firm hand for her twins.

“That’s why I need you.” Imogene raised those unremarkable hazel eyes to Astrid and pinned her on the spot.

“Me?” Astrid asked before remembering her ruse.

“A matchmaker.” It seemed Imogene picked that moment to find her backbone. She stood and gestured grandly at herself. “Look at me,” she commanded. “I haven’t lived in this body for thirty-four years without knowing how average it is. I don’t have good conversation skills. I’m bashful. I’m shy. How I ever got Abner to notice me to begin with I’ll never know. I suppose that was all part of God’s plan.”

The problem was that the rest of God’s plan included Abner dying and leaving Imogene to raise twin boys she couldn’t handle. Suddenly a small attack of conscience rolled up in Astrid like a storm cloud.

She should tell her right now that she wasn’t a matchmaker. She wasn’t even married herself and never planned on it. Aside from her career as a romance writer, she was wholly unqualified to help anyone find a mate. Certainly being a romance author was by no means any training for such a feat. In actuality she had complete control over her characters and could direct them as to the right time to say the right thing to make it all fall into place.

Wait . . . that might come in handy.

“Did you have anyone in mind?” she asked Imogene.

The other woman shook her head. “But I need someone strong. Someone who can handle my boys.”

“What about love?” Astrid asked.

Imogene Yoder turned a delicate shade of pink and once again lowered her gaze to the fascinating spot of nothing staining her apron. “Love isn’t that important.”

“Isn’t impor—” Astrid pulled herself back. Shouting at the poor woman wouldn’t help a thing. “Love is everything,” she countered quietly.

“Maybe once,” Imogene said. “But not any longer.”

It was perhaps the saddest thing Astrid had ever heard. The wave of compunction she had felt earlier disappeared in that instant. She would help this woman. She had to help her. “But if you could get love . . .” Astrid prodded.

“We plain girls can’t be too picky.” Once again Imogene mumbled the words into her lap. “That’s why I’m here.”

Astrid smiled. “Don’t you worry none,” she said. “You came to the right place. And I know just the man.”

“You do?” Imogene raised her gaze, those muddy green eyes filling with tears and hope. Mostly hope. But the tears got to Astrid all the same. She was right to do this. Completely and wholly right.

To call it anything other than giving in to distraction would be a terrible misstatement, but thankfully she was the only one calling it anything at all. So there was that.

“Of course.” Astrid nodded and stood, silently promoting Imogene to do the same. Poor thing. She really was malleable, and Astrid was instantly glad that Imogene had picked her to serve as matchmaker.

Still, Astrid would like to know who had started such a rumor, but she was thankful, nonetheless. Why, the poor woman could have ended up at Marie Lapp’s house instead. Who knew what Paradise Hill’s resident busybody would have done with the sadness and despair that Astrid found herself presented with? Marie Lapp might be the wife of their district’s preacher, but she conducted herself more like a news reporter, making it her sole purpose to spread whatever she heard to the far corners of their tiny little community.

Imogene smiled then, the first true smile Astrid had seen from her the entire time that she had been sitting in the parlor talking to her lap. “Danki,” she said. She grabbed Astrid’s hand and shook it vigorously. F a moment she looked almost . . . not plain. There was a sparkle in her eye. Maybe hope? “Danki, Astrid. I knew I made the right choice to come here.”

“Of course,” Astrid said, gently extracting her hand from Imogene’s.

“Oh.” The woman’s expression fell. “What do we do now?”

Astrid motioned toward the door. “You go on home, but plan on coming back for church on Sunday. Wear your best church dress,” she instructed. “I’ll take care of everything else.”

“Church?” she asked. “But church is . . . church.”

Astrid nodded. Church was a sacred time, but it wasn’t like they were going on a date. “I know, but you’re just coming to meet him and the rest of the people here in Paradise Hill. It’s nothing. So come,” she added. “And wear your best church dress. Good impressions and all that.”

“Best dress,” Imogene parroted as she made her way to the front door with Astrid right behind. “Where’s church on Sunday?” she asked, suddenly turning at the door to face Astrid once again.

“Never mind that. Be here at seven on the dot, got it?”

Imogene nodded. “Seven,” she repeated.

Astrid opened the door for Imogene, who scuttled out into the bright Indian summer.

“Danki,” she called again as she hoisted herself into her buggy and started the horse into motion. She waved.

Astrid raised one hand in return as her brother, Jesse, came out of his workshop.

He stared after the departing buggy, wiping his hands on a faded shop towel already stained with the dyes he used for his leathers. “Who was that?”

Astrid shook her head. “Never you mind,” she replied. “She’s about to be engaged.”

Imogene tried to make herself as small as possible as she crossed the line that separated Paradise Hill and Paradise Springs. It was an invisible line usually, though around the time when the Englisch high school went back in the fall and let out for the summer, someone—most likely a student or two—painted it in. Sometimes it was blue and sometimes red, depending on which side was responsible, she supposed. No one had ever said for certain. But today it was merely a line on a map drawn by two brothers who both wanted sole control of the area.

It sounded like something from an Englisch fairy tale, but the dueling brothers had been Amish, both wanting to lay claim to their father’s legacy and neither willing to step aside for the other, a rivalry that lived on to this day.

So it wouldn’t do for anyone to notice that her buggy was coming from the side of Paradise Hill. She could always say she got turned around or she was visiting one of the businesses that sat near the border between the towns. But she didn’t want to have to answer those questions. She didn’t have it in her to lie. Not really, though she was about to tell a doozy.

Imogene kept her head down, her eyes focused on what little bit of the road she could see before her. Just a couple of blocks more and she would be free and clear.

But today’s trip had been worth the stress. Already the knot of tension that had been lurking in her shoulders and neck eased. All she had to do now was show up for church in Paradise Hill on Sunday, and Astrid would do the rest.

That knot of tension returned and pulled even tighter than before.

Astrid was positive, self-assured, and firm in her beliefs, but now that Imogene was out of her presence, her own confidence had vanished.

But she could do this, she told herself. She had to do this. For the boys.

Matthew and Mahlon were more identical than two people ought to be, even twins born three and a half minutes apart. And they were a constant joy in her life. Until they got it in their heads that they didn’t understand why their father had died.

Sometimes Imogene thought they might even blame her for Abner’s death. It was an accident. Plain and simple. He had been fishing in the creek. Folks said it looked as if he was trying to cross in a low spot, where the jagged river rocks created a shallow bed. The authorities said it appeared that he had slipped on one of those mossy stones. He hit his head on one of the rocks when he fell and landed facedown, knocked out cold. There had been just enough cool water trickling by to drown him.

The whole town had shaken their heads in disb. . .