by Beth Wiseman
As she pulled into the driveway, she could see that they were roses, again wrapped in green tissue. Her heart flipped as she neared him and slowed to a stop.
“These are for you.” Aaron offered her the roses. “I’ve missed you, Leah.”
Leah accepted the flowers but avoided his eyes. “Danki.” She didn’t move from the scooter, unsure what to say or do.
“I see you brought lunch.” Aaron nodded toward the picnic basket. “That was nice.”
You told me to. She tried to push back her bitterness about that, since he’d shown up with flowers and said he’d missed her. “Chicken salad and tomato pie.” She lifted the basket out of the tray and gently set the flowers inside.
“I brought a blanket. Do you want to go back to our spot under the tree by the pond?”
“I reckon.” Leah forced a smile. He seemed genuinely glad to see her, but she still wondered what had caused him to change his mind. They started walking toward the pond, and Aaron took the basket from her. He had the blanket draped across his shoulder and a thermos in one hand.
“I remembered to bring tea this time,” she said as she eyed the silver thermos.
“We’ll have plenty to drink then.” He smiled.
Leah’s head was filled with recollections of their last time here, especially of his tender kisses. But she was leery of him now. If he’d turned on her so suddenly before . . .
When they got to the pond, Aaron spread the blanket underneath the tree and set the picnic basket and thermos in a far corner. He motioned for her to sit down.
Leah folded her legs sideways beneath her and fingered the intricate stitching on the blue and yellow quilt, with weaving vines of greenery connecting the bright flowers. Aaron sat down beside her, too close. His leg brushed against hers and sent a ripple through her. She edged back and took a deep breath.
“I finished your second book,” he said. “Like the first one, it was great.”
She smiled. “Danki.”
“Auntie Ruth said she gave your first story to your daed and suggested he read it.” Aaron scowled. “I told her I wasn’t sure if that was such a gut idea.”
“Actually, it turned out to be a very gut idea. Daed read it and decided that my stories were inspired by God, and he encouraged me to keep writing.”
“Leah, that’s great.” Aaron reached for her hand, but she pulled away. She wasn’t interested in talking about her book, her father, or anything else but why they were here.
“You said there were things to be said, Aaron. What things?” She sat up a little taller and held her head high.
“Huh? I said?” His mouth twitched slightly to one side, and he tilted his head.
“In your note to me, you said—”
“What? What note?”
Leah raised her brows. “The note you pinned to my mailbox, of course.”
Aaron rubbed his chin. “Leah, I didn’t pin any note to your mailbox.”
Leah had on her working apron, and since she’d read the note again that morning, she realized it was still in her pocket. She pulled it out and shoved it in his direction.
She waited while he seemed to read the note over and over again, shaking his head. “Leah, I didn’t write this.” He looked up at her, his eyes filled with confusion.
“What? Of course you did!” She jumped up from the blanket, put her hands on her hips, and stared down at him. “Then what are you doing here?”
Aaron lifted himself up, reached into his own pocket, and retrieved a red piece of paper just like the one Leah had just handed him. “Because you pinned a note on my mailbox.”
“I did no such thing!” She grabbed the note from his hand.
Aaron,
Please meet me at our place tomorrow at noon. There is much to be said, and I miss you.
It would be lovely if you could bring me flowers. Kindest regards, Leah
Leah handed him the note back as if it were poison. “I can assure you, I did not write that.” She brought her hand to her chest. “What must you have thought, to think that I would ask you to bring me flowers?”
Aaron shrugged, grinning. “I reckon it seemed strange, but . . .”
They both stood quietly for a few moments.
“I can think of only one person who would do this,” Aaron said.
Leah snapped her finger. “And her favorite color is red!”
They grew quiet again, both lost in amused thought.
“I wasn’t even sure what you meant by our place.” Leah giggled.
“I wasn’t sure either.” Aaron looped his thumbs in his suspenders. “And just so you know, I wouldn’t have asked you to bring lunch.”
Leah’s face soured, and she cut her eyes at him. “Because of my cooking?”
“No, no. Because it’s just, well . . . rude.”
“Looks like we have lunch, and I have flowers, and . . .” Leah folded her arms across her chest. “Why would Auntie Ruth do this?”
Aaron’s mouth twitched slightly to one side, and he avoided her eyes. “I reckon it’s because I’ve been mopin’ around a bit lately. At least that’s what Auntie Ruth said.” He looked up at Leah. “She knew I missed you.”
Leah didn’t understand at all. “But you are the one who didn’t want to spend time with me anymore.” She turned away from him. “I feel silly even being here now.”
Aaron walked up behind her, so close she could feel his breath against her neck. “I’ve always wanted to spend time with you, Leah. I just didn’t want to be your excuse to get out of the house if you weren’t feeling the same thing I was feeling.”
She spun around, putting their faces only inches apart, and her recollections of shared kisses danced in her mind. “What? Why would you say that?”
“I overheard Edna telling Abner that the only reason you were spending time with me was because your daed wouldn’t let you out of the house. I reckon it didn’t seem right. I almost didn’t come today.”
Leah looked down. “Oh no. That’s not true, Aaron.” She glanced up again. “It must have seemed that way, but I love—love spending time with you.”
“That’s gut to know.” Aaron backed away a little, his mouth twitching slightly. “Wanna eat?”
“I guess so.”
He reached for her hand, and together they sat down on the blanket. Leah opened the picnic basket and handed Aaron a sandwich, but before they took their first bite, their attention was drawn to the road. Dirt flew from beneath the horse’s hooves as Abner rounded the corner and came barreling onto the driveway, going much too fast and yelling Aaron’s name.
They stood up, abandoning the picnic, and Leah followed Aaron across the field. His quick walk turned to a run, and Leah broke into a jog behind him.
“What’s wrong?” Aaron tried to catch his breath.
Abner climbed out of the buggy and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It’s Auntie Ruth.” Abner’s forehead creased with sorrow as he spoke. “She’s gone, Aaron. Passed in her sleep while she was taking a nap. We need you at home.”
Chapter Twenty-one
BISHOP EBERSOL GRANTED PERMISSION FOR AUNTIE RUTH to be buried in the Amish cemetery, even though she wasn’t a member of the Old Order. Aaron’s parents explained that Ruth didn’t have any other family, and since Ruth was Amish by birth, the bishop had agreed. An autopsy was waived because Aaron’s mother found Ruth’s medical records in her suitcase, along with all of her affairs neatly in order. She’d had chronic heart disease.
Leah looked for Aaron amid the crowd of people in attendance at the funeral. She recalled the way his bottom lip had trembled when he drove her home after hearing the news three days ago. He’d hurriedly kissed her on the cheek when he dropped her off, and Leah suspected he was anxious to be away from her to experience his emotions. Leah had cried when Abner told them the news, but Aaron had clamped his lips tight and merely nodded. Leah hadn’t seen him again until now.
She scanned the Lantzes’ den, surprised at how many
people in the community were in attendance to pay their respects to Ruth. But as she overheard various conversations going on around her, she realized that Ruth had touched a lot of people.
“Remember when the Miller family suffered such tragedy when young Lizzie died four years ago?” she heard Amanda Graber’s mother say to her husband. “Ruth stood guard outside the gate and kept those pesky reporters away.”
Katharine Graber paused. “She certainly had a good heart.”
Leah walked across the room as people began to take their seats. Rebecca Miller was standing in a corner talking to Ben. Leah knew funerals were tough for Rebecca and her entire family. She was glad Ben was nearby, but Leah wondered if those two would ever become a couple. Rebecca seemed to be lost inside herself and kept most everyone at a distance. Particularly Ben. Leah reminded herself to say an extra prayer for Rebecca tonight.
“Did you know that Ruth helped to deliver you?” Leah’s mother whispered to her as they took their seats.
Leah didn’t know, and she turned toward her mother. “Really?”
“Ya. The midwife had taken ill, and Ruth filled in like she’d delivered a baby a hundred times.” Her mother smiled. “Turned out, you were her first.”
The room grew quiet, and Leah found Aaron sitting on the far side of the room with the men. Her heart hurt when she saw him hastily swipe at his eyes, and she wanted to run to him, hold him, comfort him.
During the two-hour funeral, many voiced their respect for Ruth, but the focus was on admonition for the living, as was the Old Order Amish way.
Following the service, they all made their way to the buggies, and the caravan accompanied Ruth to her final resting place where a hand-dug grave awaited. Her modest tombstone had been prepared, plain like the others in the cemetery.
When the bishop closed the outdoor part of the service, Leah knew that Aaron would stay behind to help close Ruth’s grave, so she left with her family to go back to the Lantz house where a meal would be served.
It was nearly two hours later when Aaron and Leah finally found some quiet time to talk, around the back side of the barn. Once they were alone and out of sight, Aaron wrapped his arms around Leah and kissed her tenderly on the cheek.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”
Leah burrowed her head against Aaron’s shoulder and basked in the feel of his arms, a place that felt safe and somehow . . . right. He gently eased away from her and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a red piece of paper, just like the one their notes had been written on.
“Mamm gave me this when I got home from our picnic.” Aaron handed Leah the note. “She was—she was writing us . . .” Aaron’s voice broke. “Auntie Ruth was writing a letter to you and me just before she died.”
Leah gasped. “What? Why?”
“Read it.” Aaron swallowed hard.
Leah unfolded the crumpled red piece of paper, took a deep breath, and read silently.
My dear Aaron and Leah,
I’m getting ready to lie down for a nap this wonderful afternoon. The birds are chirping, and it’s a beautiful day outside. But, Aaron, I ate your mother’s peas, and you know what those do to me. Got a bellyache. Feels like I swallowed a watermelon. Do her peas do that to you?
Leah smiled. Auntie Ruth wrote just like she lived. A maze of thoughts that somehow made sense.
Anyways, Leah and Aaron, I have you two on my mind this fine day. I’m sure you done figured out that it’s your old auntie who set the two of you up. Sneaky, ain’t I? But you two kids belong together. And all this moping around is a waste of God’s precious time that He allows us on this earth. Yes, Leah—I hear from Edna and Abner that you’ve been doing your share of moping around your house too.
Leah didn’t look up, but she could feel herself blushing.
Do you know that right now there are two redbirds sitting on my windowsill? They’re lovely. I think they’re a couple. I can tell these things.
So I hope my little plan brought the two of you together, as that was my intention. I’m tired now. Very tired. So I’ll close. Sending you both a big hug. Aaron, you’re my favorite, but don’t tell the others. Love, Auntie Ruth
Leah folded the letter up and handed it back to Aaron. She blinked back tears as she gazed into his eyes. “Aaron . . . ,” she whispered.
He kissed her again, this time on the lips, and Leah wanted nothing more than to stay in his arms forever.
Marian walked toward her husband. Most of the funeral attendees had left, and James was sitting alone at a picnic table in the Lantzes’ yard with his head in his hands. She sat down beside him.
“I saw you talking to Aaron earlier.” She put her hand on his leg. “It looked like a serious talk.”
“Ya. It was.” James shook his head, turned toward Marian. “He wants to marry our Leah in the fall. This fall.”
Marian jumped, then reached for James’s hand. “Ach! James! That’s wonderful! This is what we’ve been hoping, that Leah would find a gut mate and wed.”
“Ya, ya. I know.” James sighed. “But three weddings? We will have Edna’s, Mary Carol’s, and Leah’s weddings all within two months of one another.”
She squeezed her husband’s hand. “It will be fine, James.” Then she nudged him playfully. “Think how quiet it will be around our house.”
He smiled. “Ya. I reckon so.”
They sat quietly for a few moments. Marian was thankful for the slightly cooler temperatures, but the sun was bright as she raised her hand to her forehead and looked across the yard.
“Uh-oh,” she said. Then she nudged James again and pointed toward a couple over by the barn.
“No, no, no.” James shook his head as his face twisted in disbelief. “Not Kathleen too! Go over there and tell them not to be gettin’ any notions in their heads!”
Marian laughed aloud. “Now, James,” she warned, “you wouldn’t want me to do that.”
“She’s only sixteen,” he mumbled.
“Ya. It’s young for marriage, but I was only sixteen when I married you.” She laid her head on his shoulder, and they watched their youngest daughter grinning and talking with Mark Huyard.
Marian glanced to the porch where Mary Carol, Saul, Edna, and Abner were all sitting. Then she spotted Leah and Aaron chatting beneath an oak tree near the barn.
Marian wrapped her hands around James’s arms and squeezed. “We’re very blessed to have such wonderful daughters.”
He twisted his head, kissed her lightly on the lips, and smiled. “Ya. We are.”
Marian closed her eyes and silently thanked God for all she’d been blessed with. Not only for her four daughters, but for the wonderful man sitting next to her, whom she was just as in love with today as the day they married.
Aaron latched onto Leah’s hand and helped her up from their spot beneath the oak tree. “I have something else for you.” He motioned toward the double doors that led into the barn.
“Yesterday I went to town for Mamm to run some errands, and this was in the window of a little shop off Lincoln Highway.” Aaron pushed the barn door open with his shoulder and coaxed her inside. He pointed to a workbench against the wall.
Leah gasped. “That’s for me?” She dropped his hand and hurried to the bench, toward the typewriter sitting on top of it.
“It’s old. I think it’s an antique. And not electric, of course. But you said you wanted one.”
Leah caressed the black machine, surprised at what good shape it was in.
“It works too.” Aaron rolled the piece of paper that was already inserted upward. He eased her aside and began to type. I love you.
Leah bit her bottom lip, blinked hard, and turned to face him.
He kissed her gently on the lips, lingering there for what seemed like an eternity. Then he pulled back, cupped her cheeks in his hands, and said, “Leah, you’re never gonna be a traditional Amish fraa, and I’ll probably have to live on chicken salad and tomato pie for the rest of my life . . .
but I’ve loved you since I saw you the first day of school.” He paused, took in a deep breath.
Leah could feel her heart pounding against her chest.
“I love your stories. I love the person you are. I just love—I just love you.”
“Oh, Aaron.” Leah wrapped her arms around him. Then she pulled away and looked deeply into his eyes. “I’ll try to learn how to make something besides chicken salad and tomato pie.”
“Love me, Leah.” He kissed her again.
“I do.”
WHEN WINTER COMES
By Barbara Cameron
Chapter One
REBECCA WRAPPED HER ARMS AROUND HERSELF AS SHE stood at the edge of the frozen pond. She felt drawn to it in spite of herself. It was here, one bitter cold day five years ago, that her life had changed so much.
She used to love rushing here after school and her chores. She’d quickly exchange her boots for skates and fly across the ice. No one understood her fascination with skating, not even her twin. Her parents thought it was a passing interest, but when it didn’t fade as she got older, they bought her bigger skates as she needed them.
She wasn’t trying to be special or stand out. That would be against everything she and her community believed in. Demut— humility—was valued above all among the Plain people.
It had been years now since she’d skated. The accident had changed everything. It had been her fault, and she’d had to pay for it. But as bad as she felt about losing a sister, she knew that it had to be worse for her parents, who had lost a daughter. Even if it appeared that they had been able to forgive her, Rebecca didn’t believe it. She blamed herself so much . . . how could they not blame her too?
If she’d been a good daughter, Lizzie wouldn’t be gone.
