“What do you want, besides a better haircut?”
“I want you, Bitsy, if you’ll have me.”
She narrowed her eyes and frowned, even as her heart started beating like a Deen Castronovo drum solo. “All right. You can come in, but only if you take off the earring. It’s ridiculous.”
A hopeful light glinted in his eyes as he nodded then peeled the duct tape from his earlobe. The earring came with it. “I thought maybe you preferred men with earrings.”
“Lenny Kravitz can get away with an earring. You, Yost, absolutely cannot. Don’t ever do it again.”
“Ach. Okay.”
She stepped back, lowered her gun, and stepped aside so Yost could come into the house. He wiped his brilliant white shoes on the mat and shut the door as she peeled off her oven mitts. Standing on her rug, Yost looked at her like a puppy who’d lost his boy.
“There’s a phone shack just down the road,” Bitsy said. “Should I call an ambulance?”
“What for?”
“Because you shaved your beard. You’re obviously delirious.”
He peeled off his coat and draped it over a chair. That Grateful Dead T-shirt had sparkly threads sewn right into the fabric. “Bitsy, I love you. I love you so much that I ache when I’m not with you. I love you with everything in my heart, and I’m willing to quit the church to marry you.”
Bitsy stopped breathing. Her heart stopped beating. Time stopped moving. Yost was willing to give up the church for her? Willing to give up everything he had known his whole life? Could he really love her that much? The thought stunned her, and she almost fell to her knees. If she didn’t do something immediately, she was going to burst into tears.
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his dejected face. Kissed his cheeks, his bare chin, his frowning lips. He kissed back with all the desperation of a condemned man. “Yost,” she whispered. “I’m not worth eternal damnation.”
“You’re worth Earth, heaven, and perdition, Bitsy Kiem, and that’s the truth. I’m leaving the church. I want to marry you.”
“I can’t let you do it.”
He slid his arms around her waist. “It’s my choice, not yours.”
“You’ll be shunned. You’ll be separated from your children and grandchildren,” Bitsy said.
“Will you marry me?” He looked so utterly miserable, a casual observer might have thought he had asked her to shoot him.
She grunted her disapproval, took his hands, and led him to the sofa. He sat reluctantly, as if he thought she might try to talk him out of it. Or maybe it was the tight jeans.
“Please, Bitsy,” he said again. “Marry me?”
She knelt down in front of him and propped her arms on his knees. “Not with that haircut, I can’t. And you’re much better looking with a beard.”
He rolled his eyes. “Now you tell me.”
She took his hand and kissed every knuckle. Oh, how she loved him! Oh, how she loved that he was willing to trade his whole life for her. “The T-shirt was a nice gesture, but I hate the Grateful Dead. I was more a Journey girl.”
One side of his mouth curled up. “The guy at the store said you’d like it.”
“How old was he, like seventy?” She took his other hand and kissed those knuckles too. “Yost, I love that you would do this for me, but I can’t let you. You’d be miserable within months.”
“But I’m miserable without you.”
“As you should be. But I’m closer to being Amish than you are to being Englisch by a long shot. You don’t even know how to buy a gute pair of shoes. After my nieces were married, I talked to the bishop about getting baptized—even though I like to dye my hair and wear earrings. Believe it or not, the elders are happy when someone wants to join. The bishop was willing to overlook my defects for the sake of my soul.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this the other night?”
“Because I was hopping mad at you, Yost Weaver. I didn’t want to give you so much as a sliver of hope.”
“You succeeded.”
“I’m not sorry I did it. You’re too big for your britches.” She pulled on the hem of his jeans. “Right now more than ever.”
A smile grew slowly on his face, followed by a low chuckle. “The man at the store said ‘chicks dig tight jeans.’ ”
She puckered her lips to keep herself from smiling. “I can certainly appreciate a pair of tight jeans, but not if you end up crippled.” She made a big show of smiling. “Much as I try to avoid making my fater happy, I’m willing to be baptized to save your soul.”
His breath came out in spurts and he seemed to grow weak just sitting there. “Denki, Bitsy. Denki.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and his eyes teared up. “Denki, Bitsy. I love you so much.”
Bitsy blinked back a little moisture from her eyes. There was no reason to get mushy. “I love you too, Yost Weaver. In spite of yourself. But I want you to know that I won’t change anything about myself after we’re married, not even the earrings.”
He gazed at her and smoothed his thumb down her cheek. “I wouldn’t want you to, and I should have realized that all along.”
She couldn’t resist getting under his skin just a little. “And of course, there are some things I can’t change, like that tattoo that’s never going to come off.”
His eyes nearly popped out of his head. “You have a real tattoo?”
She pumped her eyebrows up and down. “Only my husband will ever know for sure and certain.”
He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. “I’m horrified and fascinated at the same time.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Lord, lead me not into temptation.”
“Yost,” Bitsy squealed, “you just said your first out-loud prayer! How wunderbarr.”
He smiled sheepishly. “It was an emergency.”
She slid next to him on the sofa and lifted his arm and put it around her. “Frehlicher Grischtdaag, Yost. Merry Christmas.”
The way she was looking at him made his heart swell until he couldn’t breathe for the happiness. “Frehlicher Grischtdaag, Bitsy.” It would be the best Christmas ever.
Bitsy kissed him on the cheek. “I’m so happy, I could do a dance right here in the sitting room.”
Yost shook his head. “Let’s not get carried away. I’m still getting used to the idea of a secret tattoo.”
Bitsy slid her Bible from the bookshelf and thumbed through the pages. She found the passage she was looking for and practically shoved the book in Yost’s face. “Right there,” she said. “David danced naked before the Lord. It’s in the Bible. The bishop has to approve.”
Yost groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Ach, du lieva. Don’t even think about it, Bitsy. Don’t even think about it.”
The Christmas Candle
LISA JONES BAKER
To John and Marcia Baker, the two who love me unconditionally
Acknowledgments
Huge thanks to my family and friends who have supported my writing endeavors over the past two decades. A special thank-you to my Amish go-to girl who diligently reviews every story I write, and to the folks in Arthur, Illinois, who fascinate and inspire me. Last but not least, much gratitude to the late Maxine Poff of the Weldon United Methodist Church, who realized my love for hot rolls from my 4H days to adulthood, and who offered me every tip in the book for making a winning batch!
Chapter 1
As Lydia glimpsed the small pothole in front of her, the soft purring of an engine startled her. She looked up. A guy hung his head out of an opened window and rested his arm where the glass met the sill.
“Are you okay?”
The deep, low timbre of a man’s concerned voice got her attention. With great care, she stood, balanced herself, and brushed the rocks from her palms as she faced a tall, dark-haired, burly-looking male who had stepped from his vehicle. Immediately, she recognized him from the fair.
With a kind smile, he waved an inviting hand. “Come on. My truck’s nice and warm. I’ll give you
a lift.”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. It wasn’t exactly proper for a single Amish girl to be alone with a single man, but pain combined with the fact that her house was some distance away caused her to seriously consider his kind offer.
She wondered how she’d make it home with the loose candles and broken box. Besides, the fierce stabbing in her right ankle wouldn’t allow her to put much weight on the sore foot.
Several moments later, she responded with an eager nod. “I’d appreciate that very much.”
He extended his arm in a greeting. “John King.”
She gently shook his hand. “Lydia Schultz.” She hesitated a moment to absorb the name that was all-too-familiar to her. “From King’s Bakery in town, jah?”
When their gazes locked, his eyes did a jovial dance. The only thing she could possibly do was to smile back at him.
“That’s me. In fact, I recognize you from the fair. My sister purchased one of your candles.”
“And Mamma came early to buy a dozen of your cinnamon rolls.” Despite the cold December temperature, heat warmed her cheeks. She wasn’t sure why. She reasoned that it was because of her unfortunate predicament. “It’s no secret that your pastries are famous around here.”
He gave a humble roll of his eyes. “We aim to please.” He paused to pull his scarf tighter around his neck. “So you’re on your way home?”
Suddenly realizing that they were standing outside in the cold wind, she focused on what needed done and nodded in the direction of the two-story house that seemed unusually far away.
“Jah.” She pointed. “That’s where I live.”
As his gaze followed hers, Lydia ran her fingers over the front of her coat to wipe off loose gravel and forced a smile as she began collecting her candles. But the container had torn, and carrying her goods would be impossible.
A stabbing sensation above her foot made her wince. “Ouch.” With one swift motion, she bent to rub her ankle and closed her eyes until the sharp pain subsided.
“Here. Come on.” John helped her to his Chevy pickup, where he opened the passenger door and assisted her up to the bucket seat. Despite that his touch wasn’t proper, she reasoned that it was common courtesy and gratefully welcomed his efforts. Inside of the small cab, the heat coming from the vents in front of her prompted her to breathe in delight.
He closed her door halfway and stopped. “Make sure your foot’s all the way in.”
Lydia moved her right leg closer to her left, and John closed the door with a gentle motion. “Get comfortable while I collect your candles.”
He pointed to the handle. “And roll the window up. That way, it will stay nice and warm for you, Lydia.” He darted her a reassuring wink before turning.
“Thanks.”
He dipped his head. “My pleasure.”
She adjusted herself in her seat and breathed in the delicious-smelling aroma of cinnamon rolls and grinned while glimpsing the white boxes stacked in-between the driver and passenger sides. Without looking, she was fairly sure of what was in the closed containers.
The smell gave it away. But it would be rude to peek. That definitely wouldn’t be something Mamma would approve of. So instead, she focused on John.
He retrieved the candles, one by one, and placed them in a box he pulled from a compartment in the back of his pickup. He moved lithely and without effort. She took in his deep brown winter jacket that came down to his hips and the hat that easily covered his ears.
As she sat in his cab, a car passed them. The driver waved, and she returned the gesture before refocusing on the man who’d come to her aid. As she studied him, she drew her brows together. He wasn’t thin by any means; at the same time, he wasn’t heavy, either.
His build was strong, rugged. In fact, she could easily picture him working in a field more so than inside a bakery. Of course, she didn’t know much about him. He might very well have another job.
When he started back to the Chevy, she quickly turned in the opposite direction so he wouldn’t catch her watching him. She hadn’t meant to stare, but something about him intrigued her.
It could be the sparkle in his eyes, his smile, his deep, reassuring voice, or even the way he’d immediately made her feel at ease. Maybe it was all of those qualities. She wasn’t sure.
A short time later, he joined her.
Cold air quickly filled the small interior. Without wasting time, he pulled his door closed and removed his gloves before fastening his seat belt and putting the vehicle into drive. As Lydia watched John check for traffic, she once again felt her ankle throb. But she gritted her teeth.
Her situation could have been much worse. She could have been without a ride.
So she considered herself fortunate. Besides, she’d soon be home to apply ice on the injured area. John slowly moved back onto the country blacktop. As he accelerated, they sat in silence until he eyed her foot. “How’s that ankle?”
She looked down at her shoe before lifting her chin to meet his gaze. “I think I twisted it. But it’ll be okay. Thank goodness you came by just at the right time.”
As they proceeded down the long, winding country road, Lydia grimaced. Loose gravel crunched under the tires. An occasional pebble flew out to the side. As they picked up speed, the wind whistled.
Part of her was in agony. At the same time, a strange, inexplicable contentment filled her. Her shoulders relaxed, and she enjoyed the soft feel of the fabric bucket seat. She wasn’t sure why, but she truly enjoyed the friendly company of this man, even though they’d just met.
As she breathed in the delicious aroma of cinnamon rolls, she smiled a little. He happened to catch the corners of her lips lift into a grin.
“You must not hurt too much.” He cleared his throat. “Something’s making you awfully happy over there.”
She smiled. “I was just enjoying the scent of cinnamon. It smells so . . . gut!”
He grinned in amusement as he flipped open the box on top of the stack with his right hand and nodded to the pastries. “Go ahead, Lydia. Help yourself.”
She turned her attention to the delicious-looking desserts and drew in a small hopeful breath.
“They’re extras. There should be some napkins inside of the glove box.”
She leaned forward to open the compartment in front of her to retrieve a serviette. There was a slight click as she closed the latch. She turned to the rolls and took in the neatly arranged array loaded with white icing and with great care, scooped a treat with a single napkin.
She took a bite and closed her eyes in delight. When she opened her lids, she swallowed, nodding approval. “John, this is the best yet!”
He laughed. “Glad you think so, Lydia. The truth is, the batches we made for the fair turned out exceptional. It’s not exactly a perfect science, unfortunately. You know, sometimes the yeast rises better than others. When it comes to dough, there are all sorts of factors. But before you take another bite . . .” He darted her a scolding glance.
Holding the roll in front of her, she eyed him with skepticism.
He grinned. “Don’t ruin your appetite.”
Lydia smiled a little. She considered his comment, but didn’t respond. Because even if the roll did spoil her dinner, she certainly wasn’t about to say no to the pastry. Especially this one.
And she sensed that he knew it. Because the frosted goods inside of this very box . . . well, she considered this treat “personalized.” It had been given to her directly from the baker himself.
She licked sweet icing off her fingers and talked in between bites. “I would love this recipe. Every time I eat one of these, I’m convinced it’s the best I’ve ever tasted.” She smiled a little.
“I guess that means that we improve with every batch we make,” he said in an amused tone.
“I’m serious about getting your recipe. Please?” She lifted an uncertain brow and hesitated, lowering the pitch of her voice a notch. “I know others who’d die for it, too.�
� She tore off a bite and chewed it. After she swallowed, she considered her statements and went on.
“Strangely, no one has a clue to what’s in them. A lot of folks make rolls. But this recipe . . . you add something that no one else does.” A silent plea edged her voice. “What’s the secret?”
He shook his head and slowed at the T intersection. After looking both ways, he accelerated and adjusted in his seat. “Good try, Lydia. Truth be known, this recipe has been handed down in our family for generations. By word of mouth, only.”
She took in his comment. “You mean it’s not even in writing?”
He gave a firm shake of his head.
Lydia took another bite. After she swallowed, she pressed. “Really?”
“It’s true. My great-great-grandmother was always thinking of ways to improve her dishes. She baked ’round the clock. And when it came to the rolls . . .” He offered a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. “She was determined to keep it a secret and vowed to never record the ingredients.”
He chuckled. “That’s probably why no one has copied it. I’ve tasted other pastries that came close . . . but our recipe has remained anonymous and unique, fortunately.”
“Your grandmother must have been a great lady to create this recipe. She’s made a lot of people awfully happy!”
They shared a laugh.
“I could live on these.”
As she leaned back in her seat, she acknowledged that the pain in her ankle had greatly subsided. She was sure that conversing with John had taken her mind off her injury. As she considered her new friend, she smiled a little. She enjoyed the soft purring of the truck’s engine, automatically taking in the familiar scenery in front of her.
Of course, she knew it by heart. On both sides loomed empty corn and bean fields. The stark bareness was such a sharp contrast to only a few months ago when it had been difficult to see around tall brown cornstalks.
Puffs of smoke rose from chimneys in distant houses, lingering before disappearing into the air like steam from a teakettle. Large, fluffy clouds loomed in the stark gray sky. The sun hid behind the clouds.
The Amish Christmas Candle Page 17
