The Crepes of Wrath Read Online Free Page A

on cue, the front door opened and in stepped a real live Amish man. This was not planned, I assure you, but the timing could not have been better.
    I recognized the man as Jacob Troyer. There are perhaps seven Jacob Troyers in the county, but none so handsome as the man standing in my lobby. The standard Amish beard, sans mustache, and inverted bowl haircut detracted little from his symmetrical classical features. Tall, dark, with broad shoulders, this Jacob was better looking than most of the movie stars I’d had as guests over the years.
    Amish garb varies within the denomination according to sect and region. Jacob’s dark gray pants, long-sleeved white shirt, and black suspenders were typical of workday attire for a local man in his twenties. As does every good Amish man, Jacob wore a hat at all times. Local custom dictates felt hats during cold weather, straw hats in summer. A simple black band is permissible, although some of the older generation view it as “proud.”
    The Jacob Troyer in question didn’t have a clue that he was gorgeous, and his straw hat was unadorned. He smiled bashfully when he saw us.
    “Miss Yoder?”
    “Please, call me Magdalena.”
    “Yah. Miss Yoder, may I borrow your telephone?”
    Our Amish are strictly forbidden to own telephones, but they may use the telephones of the English, as they call outsiders, to conduct their business. There is a public phone in nearby Hernia that is constantly in use.
    “Is everything all right, dear?”
    He blushed at my careless use of the endearment. “Yah. My Gertrude’s sister in Ohio is having a baby. Twins, they say. Gertrude is a twin herself. Anyway, I amsupposed to call an English woman there and see if the babies have come, but the phone in town is not working.”
    “Well, you’re certainly welcome to use mine. In fact, I was just about to show my guest to her room. You’ll have plenty of privacy.”
    He blushed even deeper. “Thank you, Miss Yoder.”
    “That’s Magdalena,” I said firmly.
    “Yah, Miss Yoder.”
    “Never mind.” I turned to Darlene. “Well, dear, shall we go upstairs?”
    The big girl trotted gamely after me, but left her suitcase behind. I made her turn around.
    “You carry your own suitcase, dear. That’s part of A.L.P.O., remember?”
    “Who is he?” Darlene whispered when she caught up with me.
    “Down, girl,” I said gently. “He’s a married man. The Gertrude he mentioned is his wife.”
    Darlene sighed. “All the good ones are taken.”
    “You can say that again.”
    “You ever been married?”
    “Once—to a bigamist, so I guess that doesn’t count. But I’m seeing someone now.”
    “Is he as dreamy as that Amish man?”
    “Even dreamier,” I said, sounding for all the world like a schoolgirl.
    That so excited Darlene she nearly dropped her suitcase. “Details,” she demanded. “I want details.”
    Unlike Darlene, I wasn’t about to share my life with a perfect stranger. I can, however, be very good at small talk. We chatted amiably about men and life in general as I showed her around. She was pleased with her room, which she called “charming,” but when I suggested she might want to give the toilet a good scrub before using it, she yawned.
    “It was a long drive from Philadelphia,” she said. “I think I’ll take a nap first.”
    “Suit yourself, dear. But I expect the powder room off the lobby to be spic and span by supper.”
    She yawned again. “Will do.”
    I returned downstairs to await the arrival of my remaining guests, as well as to check on the handsome Jacob Troyer. Alas, the lobby was empty.
    A good Magdalena would have spent the time wisely, perhaps reading the Bible. It was, after all, Sunday afternoon. Instead, I sat on my chair and twiddled my thumbs. When I got bored with that, I reached down my dress to play with my pussy.
     
    My pussy is a purebred chocolate point Siamese named Little Freni. She was a gift from Gabriel Rosen, the dreamy man I’ve been seeing.