An Amish Second Christmas

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  “Okay.” This part of the interaction was always awkward.

  “Come by on Boxing Day and check to see if it’s sold. I’m sure it will be. This is gorgeous.”

  “That’s Second Christmas,” Maggie said. The day after Christmas Day was spent visiting family and friends. Christmas didn’t end quite so quickly for the Amish.

  “Oh—right. I’m sorry, I’d forgotten about that. So the twenty-seventh, then. Or whenever you manage to make it by. I’ll have your money set aside for you.”

  Maggie tucked the receipt up her sleeve, then wrapped her woolen shawl closer.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Maggie went back to the door and pushed back out onto the street. Another customer was entering the shop, and Maggie glanced back. Would that be the Englisher to buy her quilt? It was hard to imagine where her handiwork ended up after it was sold, but she had a strange affection for the Englishers now after being a secret part of their lives, answering their questions, reading their letters.... They weren’t so frightening anymore.

  Cold air wrapped around Maggie’s legs as she stepped back out into the street, and she tugged her shawl closer. She ducked her head against a blast of snow and headed farther down the street to a fabric shop. She wasn’t going to buy anything today, but she wanted to see the new shipments all the same. It was time to get her pleasure out of the Amish pastimes again, and she used to love new fabric.

  “Maggie?”

  Maggie startled at the sound of Atley’s voice, and she looked up to find him standing in front of her on the sidewalk. His coat was buttoned all the way up, and his hands were pushed into his pockets. The tips of his ears were red from cold, and for a moment it was like no time at all had passed. A gust of wind lifted his hat, and he pulled a hand out of his pocket to push it back down on his head.

  “Atley, it’s you.” She wasn’t sure if she sounded politely pleased to see him or not. She had no more energy to pretend—not with him.

  “I didn’t expect to run into you here. What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m going to the fabric shop,” she said.

  “Ah.” He nodded. “I was just picking up a few Christmas gifts.”

  He held a plastic bag in one hand, but what was inside she couldn’t tell.

  “Well . . . ” She wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

  Maggie hesitated. “Do we really want to do this, Atley? We don’t have to pretend that everything is fine between us.”

  “Maybe it isn’t fine, but I still miss you,” he said, those dark eyes meeting hers, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge at those words.

  “You have no right to miss me,” she replied. “You left me. Not the other way around. If an Englisher girl asked my advice about a situation like this, I’d tell her to move on.”

  He dropped his gaze. “I could at least tell you what happened. I think you deserve to know.”

  Maggie paused at that—it was the one thing she’d wondered about most over the years. How had he gone from loving her like he had to . . . not? How had a different community changed his feelings for her so completely?

  “You said me helping out was worth a meal,” he added. “Come eat with me.”

  Atley was teasing—she could hear it in his voice. But she was also hungry, she had to admit, and Maggie glanced across the street to a restaurant. Perhaps he did owe her something, after all.

  “All right,” she agreed.

  They waited at the curb until a few cars had passed, and then hurried across the slushy street to the other side. The restaurant was called Uncle Tom’s, and it had burgers and fries—Englisher food. Atley held open the door for her, then followed her into the fragrant warmth of the restaurant. They stood by the big Englisher sign asking them to wait to be seated, and a few Englisher diners looked over at them in open curiosity. Maggie dropped her gaze, ignoring them.

  A waitress came by and led them to a table next to the window. Maggie ordered a burger and fries. Atley ordered a slice of pizza.

  When the waitress left them, Maggie looked out at the falling snow.

  “I’m sorry that I said anything to my father,” Atley began. “It was wrong of me. The thing is, you’ve become a bit of a celebrity in Bountiful. The young people order in the newspaper to read your column, and they pass it around to all the different homes. They like you—some of the boys are just about in love with you.”

  “Really.” She looked over at Atley, then sighed. “But not you, apparently.”

  Atley winced. “I read the column, too—”

  “You know what I mean. What happened? You’d asked me to marry you. We were going to tell our parents. Then, you moved with your family so your daet could work the carpentry shop with his brother and you were done.”

  “It wasn’t quite like that,” Atley said. “It was . . . more complicated.”

  “You said you’d explain,” she prompted.

  The bell over the front door dingled, and Maggie glanced up as an Englisher man stepped inside, and when he saw her a smile broke over his face. Maggie’s stomach sank. It was Horace Schmidt, her editor. He was a man in his mid-thirties, thin, with one of those little beards that went around the upper lip and chin that the Englishers seemed to like. He wore a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and a cap.

  Horace waved off the waitress who approached him and headed over to their table.

  “Maggie!” he said, then looked over at Atley, and the men regarded each other uncertainly.

  “This is my editor, Horace,” Maggie said, then shot Horace a wan smile. “Horace, this is Atley Troyer. It’s okay. Atley knows about my column.”

  “Pleasure.” Horace reached over and shook Atley’s hand, then pulled a manila envelope out of his coat and put it down on the table, turning his attention to Maggie. “Karen said she saw you come in here, so forgive the intrusion, but I needed to get the newest batch of letters to you.”

  Maggie looked at the envelope but didn’t touch it. Her heart hammered in her throat.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Can’t?” Horace leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been caught,” she said with a weak shrug. “And the bishop has ordered me to stop writing for you.”

  Horace froze for a couple of beats, then nodded twice. He understood the risk here. She’d explained it rather thoroughly before she began writing for them.

  “Would it help if I talked to him?” Horace asked. “You’re the best columnist we’ve got, Maggie. If there is some way to keep you—”

  “No offense, Horace, but he doesn’t care about the opinions of Englishers,” Maggie said with a sigh.

  “So, this is it, then?” Horace asked.

  “I wish I could keep writing this column, Horace. I don’t think there’s much hope.”

  Horace regarded her for a moment and tapped the envelope with two fingers. “Take it with you. If you can’t write the column, I’ll understand. But if you find a way to continue—” He let it hang.

  Maggie pulled the envelope into her lap and glanced up at Horace.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she said. “I can’t promise anything.”

  Horace crossed his fingers. “There will be no hard feelings, if you can’t. But I’m hoping for the best.”

  Atley had remained silent, but she could feel his eyes on her. Horace gave her a nod and headed back toward the front door again. The envelope was deliciously thick, and she fiddled with the flap. She’d been forbidden, but she was curious about the newest batch of letters.

  Dear Miss Amish . . .

  What advice would she give to an Amish woman in her situation? Follow the rules. Find pleasure in the life you were born to. Weigh the benefits. What life do you want? If you want an Amish life, you know what you have to do.

  Except she’d never anticipated feeling quite like this—the longing t
o continue writing a column the bishop had already forbidden. Having a voice that people listened to was more intoxicating than she’d realized, and she couldn’t go back to not knowing how it felt.

  It was like the Tree of Knowledge. She now knew too much.

  * * *

  Atley watched as the Englisher man left the restaurant. He’d been so open and easy with Maggie, and Atley felt a stab of annoyance at that. Maggie and this editor seemed to be particular friends, but Atley liked it better when the Englishers were a little less candid with them. What kind of friendship did she have with this man? He couldn’t ask, though. It had long ago stopped being his business.

  The waitress returned with their food, putting their plates in front of them. They nodded their thanks to the young woman, and when she retreated, Atley met Maggie’s gaze.

  “What will you do?” he asked.

  “I’ve been forbidden,” she said curtly. “What can I do?”

  That envelope lay on the tabletop next to her, and he sighed. Right. Atley bowed his head, saying a silent grace, and Maggie did the same. When they raised their heads, Atley picked up his pizza.

  “You said you’d tell me what happened,” Maggie said, fixing him with her clear gaze.

  He had promised that . . . and in the moment when he’d said it he was anxious to just get a bit of time alone with her. But he had promised, hadn’t he? How could he put all this into a simple explanation? Nothing about his feelings for her had been simple.

  “I realized—” Atley began, and then he stopped. No, that wasn’t the right start, either. “I had no intention of breaking things off when I left,” he said instead.

  “So what changed?” She picked up a fry and dipped it in ketchup, but she didn’t lift it to her mouth. It just hung there over that little dish of ketchup, forgotten.

  “I had time to think,” Atley said. “My feelings for you were the same, but my daet sat me down and pointed out the reality of things. Feelings can only take us so far.”

  “And I wasn’t appropriate as an Amish wife.” Her voice shook.

  “You’re—” He licked his lips. “Maggie, you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met! You’re different. You’re not a woman who loves taking care of the home.”

  “I cook. I clean.” She shot him a sharp look.

  “But you don’t love it,” he countered. “You don’t take joy in it.”

  “Do you?” she snapped.

  He chuckled. “Like that there—you’re not like the Amish girls, Maggie. You’re louder. You say more. You don’t bite back your words.”

  She smiled bitterly but didn’t answer.

  “Like I said, I had some time to think,” he said, lowering his voice. “My daet said that he and Mamm could never give their blessing for our marriage, and that would have complicated things for us. It wasn’t fair to bring you into that kind of tension. We’re very different, you and I. I want an Amish life, with an Amish woman. I want children and grandchildren. I want a carpentry shop of my own, and . . . I need a woman who wants all of that with me.”

  “You thought I didn’t want an Amish life?” She shook her head.

  “All I know is that the differences that are so appealing in the flush of young love end up making for an unhappy marriage sometimes.”

  She finally raised the fry to her mouth and took a bite. “Your brother, you mean.”

  She knew him too well, and that could be annoying, too. But she was right. They’d all been thinking of his brother who married a girl he fell in love with from a different town. No one warned him.

  “Abram married Waneta, and it wasn’t that she was a bad woman, exactly—”

  “No, not bad,” Maggie agreed. Waneta and Abram lived here in Morinville—she knew them both.

  “But she wasn’t inclined to be happy with him,” Atley said. “They started out like we did—you know that. But it’s hard to hide unhappiness, on both sides.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I talked to my brother, and he said that she wanted a different life. He wanted to farm, and she wanted to run a shop in town. He wanted lots of time with us, and she wanted more space from the family. She was less religious than he was, and . . . They were just different, Maggie.”

  “And you thought we’d be like them,” Maggie said.

  He’d feared it—that was true. Before Abram took those vows, he’d been headlong in love with Waneta. After marriage, they’d struggled. A lot. They seemed to be on better terms now, but they’d been married six years, and they were never exactly warm with each other. Mostly, Abram seemed to have just made peace with the fact that this was his wife. The thought of stumbling into his situation scared Atley more than he cared to admit to most people.

  “We’re different, Maggie,” he said at last.

  She nodded. “I heard you got engaged.”

  “I did,” he confirmed. “She was a girl from the new community, but it didn’t last.”

  “Why not?”

  “This is getting personal,” he said.

  “It’s all personal, Atley.” She smiled slightly. “So what went wrong?”

  It wasn’t anything big that had slipped between him and the other girl. It was a hundred little things—and the fact that Amish didn’t divorce. Marriage was for life, and an unhappy marriage was no excuse to be let free. But on top of all of that, he knew what love felt like....

  “She wasn’t you,” he said, his voice low.

  Maggie met his gaze, and she didn’t look surprised. Tears misted her eyes; then she blinked them back. “I’m glad you didn’t get over me that quickly.”

  “Are you?” he asked with a low laugh.

  “Yes. But all the same, I hope you find a good woman,” she said. “The one who will take rare pleasure in your laundry.”

  Still able to get a barb in. He shot her a rueful smile. “And I will take equal pleasure in the running of a farm.”

  Maggie met his gaze easily. “You thought I’d go Mennonite.”

  “It did occur to me.”

  She shook her head. “Didn’t you read those columns I wrote? I love our Amish ways. And perhaps there is special virtue in loving the household chores, but there are other virtues, too.”

  “Yah,” he agreed. “There are.”

  But the other virtues didn’t guarantee a happy marriage in the Amish ways, and he cleared his throat. They both ate for the next few minutes, but the pizza, normally a treat, didn’t taste as good as he remembered it. He didn’t finish the slice and pushed it aside.

  “You haven’t gotten married to anyone else, yet, either,” Maggie said, taking a bite of her hamburger. She seemed to have more of an appetite than he did.

  “It’s hard to vow the rest of my life to a woman I don’t know well enough,” he said. “I got spooked. I’m not proud of it.”

  “At least I wasn’t the only one,” she said with a wan smile.

  “You didn’t get married, either,” he pointed out.

  She tipped her head to the side. “No, I didn’t, but I did find something that I liked—something that filled my heart. I never realized it mattered to me so much, but to have things to say, and people who want to hear them. The thing is, this isn’t just something to fill the emptiness of not having a husband. If I’d found this after getting married, I’d still want to do it. It’s . . . it’s like that first warm spring wind after a hard winter, when you can smell warmer days ahead. Words on paper feel like summer.”

  “Even if you’d married me—” He pressed his lips together.

  “Yes,” she said with a lift of her shoulders.

  “It isn’t our way, though,” Atley argued. “Women don’t do this—put themselves in the public sphere that way.”

  “I’m technically not,” she replied. “I’ve hidden behind a fake name. No one knew it was me. If you’d have kept your mouth shut—”

  “I know, but eventually you would have slipped. Someone would have figured you out. Writing for the Englishers . . . it isn�
�t our way. Women do women’s work. Men do men’s work. And neither the men nor the women put themselves into the English spotlight. Writing for an Englisher newspaper . . . where does that land?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But I was already unmarriageable before anyone knew that I was Miss Amish. I’m not quiet and shy. I’m not afraid to speak my mind. In fact, I have a hard time not speaking my mind! The rest of the men have realized what you did—I’m Amish to the core, but I’m not womanly enough in the Amish ways. I’m too . . . brazen.”

  “Is it worth giving up marriage and a family of your own?” he asked.

  She was silent for a beat, and then she shook her head. “If nothing else, I’ve learned from Waneta. I’ve gotten to know her, and I’ve seen how hard she tried to be the wife your brother wanted. He wanted her to be stricter, more serious, more religious. And she tried! But she couldn’t change herself. A woman can only pretend for so long.”

  “What will you do, then?” he asked quietly.

  “I’m seriously considering teaching school like Aunt Ruth did,” she said quietly. “Perhaps I’ll start a business here in town. I have to do something, don’t I? Making quilts won’t be enough, not if I’m to support myself. I can’t go on with my parents forever. I thought I’d found something in writing a column, but . . . ”

  And somehow, that rebounding spirit didn’t surprise him. She’d always been strong and resourceful. Many an unmarried woman had done just as she’d suggested and simply gone about building her life alone. She found a way to be useful and did so.

  But Maggie . . . sweet, beautiful Maggie . . .

  “I didn’t mean to waste your time—” he started.

  “I’m not your problem to solve, Atley,” she said, putting her hand over his. “I daresay I’m not so easy to fix. Or to match. I’ll figure it out myself.”

  “I’m not trying to fix you,” he said. He turned his hand over and ran a thumb over her soft fingers.

  “Aren’t you?” She pulled her hand back, and he felt a little foolish for the tender gesture. They weren’t dating anymore. He had no right to all these personal questions or to hold her hand, no matter how natural it felt.

  “I really am sorry that I ruined the column for you,” he said.