Christmas Comes to Morning Star

by Charlotte Hubbard

  As Jeremiah returned to the rig, Glenn took the seat beside his father. He crammed a cookie into his mouth, closing his eyes over the simple pleasure of sugar, raisins, and cinnamon. By the time he’d sipped some cocoa and wolfed down a second cookie, blessed silence reigned. Glenn glanced across the kitchen in awe.

  Marietta was walking slowly, murmuring to Levi as she held him with his tiny head cradled in the crook of her neck. When the bishop returned with a large container of goat’s milk and some baby bottles, Molly was already running water into a pot. Glenn gradually regained control of the situation and his emotions, warming milk and filling a bottle—and then handing it to Marietta as she sat at the table with Levi as though she’d fed a baby dozens of times.

  Had she? Glenn noticed only a moment’s hesitation before she slipped the nipple into his son’s mouth.

  The kitchen took a deep, peaceful breath.

  After a few prayerful moments, Bishop Jeremiah leaned close to Glenn. “You folks enjoy a little quiet time while I unload the buggy. Which dawdi haus will you be in?”

  “Bring everything into the front room, Bishop,” Marietta replied, gazing at the tiny child in her arms. “We’ll figure out who’ll stay in which bedroom after Levi falls asleep. It’s not very efficient—or comfortable—for Glenn to be warming milk here in the kitchen and then carrying it out into the cold to feed Levi in a dawdi haus, ain’t so?”

  Jeremiah’s eyes widened, but he didn’t argue with her logic.

  Glenn blinked. He’d expected the bishop to say it wouldn’t be proper for two widowers to bunk here with the unmarried twins, yet it seemed the hand that rocked the cradle—or held the bottle—ruled the world.

  * * *

  Even inside two pairs of gloves, Pete’s hands were so cold that he could barely feel them. Several Mennonite fellows on the volunteer fire department had been helping them earlier in the day, but they’d gone home after lunch, so only Gabe Flaud and Jude Shetler remained with him at the Detweiler site.

  “Once we get this last post in place, let’s head home,” he called out. “I’m so hungry and tired and cold, I can’t see straight—much less concentrate on what we’re doing.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” Jude said with a short laugh.

  “Maybe Howard can find us some heaters,” Gabe suggested. His breath formed a white wreath of vapor around his head as he drove one final nail. “The fire department guys came up with all sorts of other equipment for us, so—”

  The sound of an approaching rig made Pete look up from the tools he was gathering. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the Helfings’ white mare halt at the roadside. Feeling far too excited, he watched the buggy’s rosy-cheeked, well-proportioned driver step down with a foil-wrapped pan in her hand.

  Don’t get your hopes up. Detweiler’s not here today because he’s been moving into their place, remember? Who knows how much progress he’s made, catching Molly’s eye?

  The red flags in his imagination didn’t stop him from smiling as she approached, however. Molly was coming toward the site with something to eat, no doubt.

  “My word,” she called out with a shake of her head. “I—I had no idea what to expect when I got here, but this . . . well, it’s devastating. I can’t imagine how Glenn and his family must feel now that their home’s been completely destroyed.”

  Pete refrained from asking how comfortable Detweiler was making himself at the Helfing place. “Jah, they’re starting from scratch,” he confirmed. “At least they all made it out before the stove exploded—”

  “And compared to how things looked before the rubble got plowed away,” Gabe put in as he went toward their visitor, “what you see now at least looks hopeful. Do I dare believe you’ve got some goodies in that pan, Molly? I’m so hungry I could eat my fingers!”

  Molly’s laughter rang around them, warming Pete from the inside out. “Save those fingers for holding a hammer,” she teased as she removed the foil from her pan. “We made these this morning before Glenn’s family arrived, but I saved some for you guys.”

  Pete jogged up to her and playfully slapped Gabe’s hand away. “If I let you go first, Flaud, there won’t be any for the rest of us.”

  By the time Jude joined them, Pete had crammed an entire oatmeal raisin cookie into his mouth. He stepped back to allow his friends access to the pan, assessing Molly’s mood and expression. It was too much to hope that she’d brought the cookies just for him—and maybe it was best that the two other men were there anyway. Kept him from asking too many questions about Glenn.

  “Somebody brought you fellows your lunch, jah?” Molly asked with an endearing little scowl. “I don’t recall who was on the list to provide your noon meal, but—”

  “Rose’s chili hit the spot,” Jude replied with his mouth full.

  “It’s been hours since we ate it, though,” Pete put in. “We’re all cold enough that we’re calling it a day. You’ve given us the energy to drive home.”

  The sparkle in Molly’s green eyes rendered him momentarily speechless. “I should’ve brought you some coffee—”

  “Oh, we’ll be here again tomorrow,” Jude hinted as he took another cookie. “But denki for thinking of us this afternoon. See you guys in the morning.”

  “Jah, I’m out of here, too,” Gabe added with a shiver. “It’s a gut thing we’ll have the place enclosed by the weekend.”

  Pete took hold of the pan’s other side and helped himself to another cookie. With his companions making their exit, he could spend a little time alone with Molly without seeming obvious about it. He allowed himself a moment to drink in her flawless complexion and evergreen eyes. Did her head get cold now that she only had a couple of inches of hair covering her scalp?

  He dismissed the question before it got him into trouble. The wind had coaxed a couple of loose curls from beneath her black winter bonnet, and he suddenly wanted to remove his gloves and rumple them.

  “So—how’s it going?” he asked quickly. “Did Glenn get his stuff moved in okay? Probably filled up one of your dawdi hauses, considering all the donated clothes and toys they’ve already collected.”

  “They had a lot of boxes,” she agreed, “but after Jeremiah unloaded them, we rearranged the spare bedroom downstairs and the next room, where Mamm’s sewing machine is set up. The dawdi hauses only have hot plates, you know. Seems better for Glenn to stay in the house rather than coming inside to warm Levi’s bottles and then taking them back out into the cold.”

  Molly might as well have sucker punched him. Apparently his uncle hadn’t objected, but it sounded awfully cozy, having Detweiler bunk so close to the stairway that led up to the twins’ bedrooms.

  Pete immediately felt envious—and wished he’d found a reason to stay in the main house while he’d been renting there. He vaguely regretted moving in with Jeremiah, too, but at this point he had no valid reason to return to the Helfing place—even if he felt the need to chaperone.

  “Sounds like you ladies are making the Detweilers very comfortable,” he remarked.

  Molly raised an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

  Pete’s mouth fell open. With one word, she’d nailed him.

  “Why do you ask?” he shot back. But with Molly focused on him so confidently, it felt like a weak tactic.

  She shrugged. “When I want to know something, that’s generally the way I find out,” she replied breezily, releasing the cookie pan. “Glenn says he’ll be here to work tomorrow, so if you want to know more, ask him.”

  Before Pete could respond, she was walking toward her rig. As he watched Molly drive down the road, his heart felt like one of the frozen black lumps of ash the dozer had removed from the Detweilers’ foundation. With a heavy sigh, he opened his truck door to let Riley out for a quick run-around.

  “Well, I blew that one,” he muttered.

  The big yellow dog stood up on the seat, none too eager to leave his warm napping spot.

  “You don’t get one of these oat
meal raisin cookies until you help me pick up my stuff,” Pete said, setting them on the truck’s hood.

  Eyeing the pan through the windshield, Riley hopped down. As his dog loped around the construction site, sniffing and doing his business, Pete retrieved his cords and the batteries that ran his power tools. He turned in time to see his retriever leap effortlessly onto the truck’s hood to devour the rest of Molly’s cookies.

  “Hey! Get back in the truck!” he hollered. “Those were mine!”

  Riley appeared every bit as concerned—and apologetic—as Molly had been during her brief, unsettling visit. At least the dog did what he was told without giving Pete any flack, which was more than he could say for Miss Helfing.

  Pete climbed into the truck and cranked its engine, gasping as cold air shot from the heater vents. Riley seemed to be laughing at him: his pink tongue dangled from his mouth, dotted with wet chunks of cookie.

  “You’re a mess,” Pete said as he put the truck in gear. “But at least you’ll ride with me—which is more than we can say for You-Know-Who.”

  Chapter 8

  After feeling twitchy with anticipation all day, Jo was delighted to see the Wengerds coming up the lane toward the house late Friday afternoon. The wagon they were pulling was empty, so they must have stopped at The Marketplace first to unload it—which meant their evening at the house would be uninterrupted. She inhaled deeply to settle her giddiness. Because Mamm had put a large venison roast in the oven with carrots, turnips, and potatoes, the rich aroma of meat and vegetables would greet their guests when they stepped inside.

  In her excitement, Jo opened the door before Michael and his dat reached the porch. “It’s gut to see you!” she called out. “How was the drive? Sometimes the weather in eastern Missouri is different from what we have here in the middle.”

  “Went just fine,” Nelson replied. “We had our Mennonite neighbors haul a big load of poinsettias to The Marketplace in their delivery truck to keep them from getting too cold. Michael rode with them to unlock the place, and by the time I got there with our wagonload of wreaths, the flowers were all unloaded.”

  “Jah, you should see the commons area,” Michael put in, smiling at Jo. “We had more poinsettias than would fit in our nursery store, so we set the extras along the fronts of the shops for now.”

  “Oh, I bet that looks pretty!” she exclaimed, closing the door behind them. Was it her imagination, or had Michael been searching her face for a response to his postcard? Jo felt a shimmer of excitement when his fingers lingered on hers before he released his coat so she could hang it up.

  “Smells like you ladies have been cooking all day,” Nelson remarked as he headed into the kitchen. “Supper smells wonderful-gut—and look at all these cookies!”

  “Jah, Jo doesn’t know when to quit,” Mamm said, grabbing her pot holders. “She’s covered every square inch of my counter space, so I have no place to put this roaster—”

  “Now you do,” Jo countered as she picked up a large wire rack of the decorated sugar cookies. “I’ll set these in the front room for now—and Michael, if you’ll grab that other rack, we’ll give Mamm plenty of space.”

  Michael carefully lifted the other wire rack and followed Jo. “These look gut enough to eat,” he teased.

  “Let’s hope so!” Jo put in as she set her rack on the coffee table. “The frosting needs to set up before I stack them in my bins for tomorrow.”

  As her companion gently placed his rack beside hers, Jo glanced toward the kitchen. “I—I got your pretty postcard,” she whispered.

  “And?” Michael straightened to his full height, remaining between Jo and the kitchen in case anyone was watching. His beautiful gray-blue eyes were alight with the same anticipation that filled her insides with butterflies.

  Jo took a deep breath so she wouldn’t say the wrong thing. He probably wouldn’t be surprised—but she didn’t want him to be disappointed, either. “I’d love to come!” she murmured. “I’ll tell you, though, that the card your dat sent Mamm was in the wastebasket, all torn to pieces—”

  Michael briefly grasped her hand. “It’s okay, Jo. We’ll figure something out.”

  What a blessing it was to have a friend with such a positive attitude. Jo nodded shyly, glancing around his lean frame to be sure Mamm wasn’t spying on them. “It’s mostly a matter of when,” she continued in a hurried whisper. “I’ll need a lot of time before Christmas to do my Marketplace baking—”

  “We’ll figure that out, too.” Michael flashed her a quick grin. “Probably better get back in there with the parents, ain’t so? They’ll think we’re scheming something up.”

  Jo laughed out loud and then clapped her hand over her mouth. It was so much fun to share a secret—and to believe that someday, with Michael’s help, she might get to see those beautiful poinsettias in person rather than on a postcard. As she returned to the kitchen, she knew her radiant face gave away the excitement she was feeling—

  And why was that a bad thing? Wasn’t the Christmas season supposed to be merry and bright?

  When Jo and Michael came through the doorway, Nelson was placing the platter of venison roast on the table. The bread basket was already on, as were the bowls of turnip wedges, sliced carrots, and small, whole potatoes that had browned from baking in the meat’s juices.

  Although the Wengerds had become their good friends over the past several months, Jo suspected Nelson was trying to win her mamm’s favor by helping without being asked—and that wasn’t a bad thing, either. Many Amish men wouldn’t lend a hand with “women’s work,” but he’d lost his wife a few years ago, so he and Michael were accustomed to doing the household chores themselves.

  A while back, Mamm had even invited Nelson to sit at the head of the table and lead them in their silent grace each Friday evening—so maybe Jo’s dream about visiting the Wengerd place wasn’t so far-fetched, after all. Hope thrummed in Jo’s heart as she bowed her head.

  After several moments of prayer, Nelson cleared his throat. He was reaching for the meat when Mamm started in.

  “Before you bring the subject up, Jo and I won’t be going to Queen City for a visit,” she stated. “What would be the point? I’m happy right here, and I don’t ever intend to remarry.”

  Nelson’s eyebrows rose slightly. He was an attractive man whose face was distinguished by smile lines, and Mamm’s sanctimonious tone didn’t seem to bother him. “Who said anything about leaving your place, Drusilla? Or about getting remarried?” he asked calmly as he helped himself to venison.

  “I know what you were thinking, sending me that postcard!” Mamm retorted. “And you’ve invited us before, remember? But we’ll not be accepting your invitation.”

  “Who says I don’t want to go?” Jo blurted.

  Across the table from her, Michael’s eyes lit up—but her mother’s expression soured immediately.

  “We’ve had this discussion, daughter,” she whispered tersely, “and it’s a topic best not discussed in front of our company, ain’t so?”

  Something inside her snapped. Jo was treading on thin ice, because she’d never defied her mother—but wasn’t it time she spoke up for herself? At thirty-one, didn’t she have the right to give her own answers and to have her own opinions—not to mention hopes and dreams her mother would never understand?

  Jo folded her hands in her lap, praying for words that wouldn’t ruin their meal before it even began. “I got a postcard, too,” she said softly. “And I would really enjoy seeing those greenhouses filled with poinsettias—”

  “You’re falling for it! You’re thinking something serious and—and meaningful—is going to come of this, Josephine,” Mamm warned her in a low voice.

  “You make it sound as though we’re hoodwinking the two of you, or luring you into a questionable situation,” Nelson said as he gazed at her mother.

  “It’s a simple invitation,” Michael put in earnestly. “We only want to—”

  “There’s no such th
ing as a simple invitation when it comes to my daughter’s feelings! She has no idea about the ulterior motives men have—or about the ways they tell such pretty fairy tales at first, only to slap a woman’s opinions and ideas down after they’ve got her where they want her!” Mamm glared at Nelson and then at Michael. “We’ll not be discussing this topic any further—not if you’re to continue eating supper at my table every weekend.”

  Stunned speechless by her mother’s vehement response, Jo stared at her plate. Where had such remarks come from? As far as she knew, her father had treated Mamm with utmost respect—and he’d certainly tolerated her increasingly negative remarks and moods in his later years. As an uncomfortable silence filled the kitchen, her cheeks blazed with humiliation.

  Nelson and Michael had done absolutely nothing to deserve such a scathing lecture. As Jo went through the motions of filling her plate with food she was no longer hungry for, she wondered what could possibly have given Mamm such an idea about men and their ulterior motives.

  Jo was quite aware that she was trusting and naive because she’d had so little opportunity to spend time with young men—let alone get her heart broken or be led astray. She’d never been taken home from a singing or gone on a real date, much less received a kiss from anyone.

  And isn’t that the saddest thing I’ve ever admitted? Am I not entitled to make my own mistakes? Who knows what kind of happiness I might be passing up, simply because Mamm believes I don’t know what’s best for me?

  Jo swallowed hard, blinking back tears she hoped Michael and his dat wouldn’t notice. She didn’t dare apologize to the Wengerds for her mother’s rude remarks—and she didn’t know how to relieve the unbearable silence that went on and on as they filled their plates.