by Susan Rohrer
BRIGHT CHRISTMAS:
An Amish Love Story
(Redeeming Romance Series)
Written by Susan Rohrer
Adapted from Susan Rohrer’s original screenplay
Kindly direct inquiries about novel or screenplay to:
[email protected]
Readers may contact author at:
shelfari.com/susanrohrer
Excepting brief excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the author.
This novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are drawn from the public record/public domain and are used in a wholly harmless and fictitious way. Any resemblance of this fictional work to actual locations, events, organizations, or persons living or dead is coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.
Public domain lyrics appear from the following:
“Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” by Henry J. van Dyke; “Joy to the World” by Isaac Watts; “O Little Town of Bethlehem” by Phillips Brooks; “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” by Henry W. Longfellow
Redeeming Romance Series logo & dingbats:
Copyright © 2013, Susan Rohrer.
Cover Images by Sandra Martin Hudgins
Cover Graphic Design by Lynda Jakovich, cooldogdesign
ISBN 13: 978-1484972656
ISBN 10: 1484972651
Underlying Material:
“Bright Christmas” (a.k.a. “Home by Christmas”)
Registered with the Writers Guild of America
Story: © 2004, Screenplay: © 2006,
by Susan Rohrer, all rights reserved.
Novel:
Copyright © 2013, Susan Rohrer, all rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America
First Edition 2013
To all who endeavor to live
in true faith, hope, and love
contents
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
About the Author
one
Charity Bright gathered firewood from a dwindling stack, her gaze drawn to the horizon. Try as she might, she simply couldn’t shake the sensation that enveloped her. Something was in the air. It wasn’t just the scent of fresh cut hickory and ash. No, it was far more. A whisper penetrated her being.
Change was coming.
How could something be so fearsome and yet so fascinating? Perhaps it was because, within their Old Order Amish district, change wasn’t an everyday—even an every year—thing. Change took time. It meandered like the brook bordering their property, imperceptibly carving its path. For the most part, Charity preferred it that way. It was comforting to know what to expect. Tomorrow would dawn soon enough.
She didn’t make a fuss over birthdays, least of all her own. But this particular one—it seemed different somehow. When the sun set, then rose again, it would mean much more than simply bidding a fond farewell to her teens. There was an invisible corner she’d turn. In the morning, she’d be twenty. She’d awaken to find that the adventure of her adult life had finally begun.
Charity nestled the load of split logs into the sturdy black fabric of her everyday apron. This had been the warmest autumn on memory, so she drank in the new crispness of the air, and the Yuletide it heralded. Many favored the warmth or color of other seasons, but for Charity, there was something about the frosty Pennsylvania winters that made them the most beautiful of all. How she relished the wind’s chill, the refreshing tingle against her face and hands.
She gazed at her surroundings. They had a good life. Smoke curled from the chimney of her family’s wood-framed home. A light breeze dissipated the rising puffs into a brilliant blue sky. A milking cow grazed beside their red barn, the bell about her neck softly clanking with each step. In a way, she longed to preserve it all, just as it stood, forever.
But that was not to be.
Charity flapped the hem of her apron over her load of oak and maple, then headed back toward the house. She ducked as a stone sailed over her head. It landed across the yard inside a bushel basket, set atop a fence post. Nearing seventeen, her twin brothers, Aaron and Isaac, still found time to play.
“Yes!” Aaron pumped his fists.
Charity suppressed her amusement. “You two are far braver than I am, piffling around—so idle—what with Christmas coming and Dat on his way home to catch you.”
Almost in tandem, the boys whirled to check the road for their father’s return. “No sign yet,” Isaac said.
Aaron sidled up to her. “You wouldn’t tattle on your own brothers, would you, Charity?”
Wryly, she tipped her head. “No need. The size of the woodpile will do the telling.” Though she was the eldest, she reminded herself to exercise that role lightly with her brothers. She was not their mother and didn’t presume to be.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as, with no protest other than trading a chagrined grimace, Aaron and Isaac picked up their axes. Compliantly, they trudged back to their task at the chopping block. As competitive as the two of them were, no doubt, they would resume their stone-tossing contest just as soon as their chores were done.
Indeed, by now, their father would be traversing the rolling hills from town with their grandfather, in the family’s horse-drawn buggy. How deeply she respected her father. Everyone did. The name, Nathan Bright, was associated with handcrafted furniture every bit as sturdy as his character. No wonder Mamm had married Dat.
Charity counted back. This was the seventeenth December since Mamm had slipped into eternity. Yet, even after the grave, Dat had chosen to remain true to her.
As she stoked the fire inside, Charity brushed back the slender ribbons of her white kapp, lest they be scorched by the blaze. How dearly she prized that covering, the last of the kapps Mamm had pleated with her own hands. Dat had surprised her with it when she’d turned eighteen—two years ago, now. At the time, Dat didn’t explain what the gift meant in so many words. Still, she understood. He was telling her that, even though she was unmarried, she could set aside the black kapp of her youth. Every day she pinned that white kapp in place, she was taking on the mantle of her mother.
There was something about the aroma of apple butter bubbling on the stove that always invigorated Charity. Perhaps it was the imported cinnamon she ground, or maybe the nutmeg, both contributed by their neighbors to the south, the Beachey family. While her closest friend, Bethany Beachey, worked at her side, Charity wordlessly acknowledged a secret to herself.
It might just be the apples.
They’d been harvested that fall, then dutifully delivered, straight to her kitchen door, by the Yoder’s strappingly handsome son, Daniel.
Ah, yes. Daniel Yoder.
There were many Yoders in their community, but keeping her wits whenever this particular Yoder was around, well, that took discipline. She did her best not to let her gaze linger on him, what with his wheat colored hair and those chestnut eyes. That ready smile of his—with those crescent dimples on either side—those alone could tip her completely off balance.
Bethany scooped out an apple core. “Why are you smiling like that?”
Charity bit at her lower lip. “Am I?”
/>
“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?”
Feeling a blush rise, Charity averted her gaze. She scraped the nutmeg into a measuring cup.
“You’re practically twenty, Charity. It’s not like it’s a sin.”
“I know.” Wait. Had she put in the ginger yet? Yes. There were the dashes of tan in the mixture.
Bethany shook her head. “Half of our friends are already published and married. You won’t even come to the singings.”
“I will.”
Bethany leaned closer. “When?”
Charity dumped the spice mixture into the kettle. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometime. There’s so much to do around here.” That was true, especially now with Christmas on the way and their canned goods flying off the shelves in town.
Bethany shrugged with that crooked little grin of hers. She was pretty good at knowing when to drop a hot potato.
Anyway, it wasn’t like Charity hadn’t noticed Daniel’s appeal long ago, as they’d both come of age. She’d just always reminded herself not to indulge herself too soon with thoughts of him.
Not yet.
Admittedly, it had been a bit harder to resist thoughts of Daniel this past harvest than in previous years. She’d chased envy away as several of her younger friends’ pairings had been published to the church. The announcements seemed endless last fall, then—just to add to the awkwardness of it—Rhoda Chupp wondered aloud why Charity’s name still wasn’t on the list. Rhoda was getting on in years and very hard of hearing. Her pronounced whispers could be heard clear across a cornfield.
Of course, Rhoda hadn’t meant any harm, but something had still twisted in Charity’s stomach. There’d been no escaping all those eyes that darted into her direction. Where was a trap door to crawl through when she needed it?
Oh, to simply disappear.
Just concentrate on being happy for the others, she’d told herself, but it had been no use. Rhoda’s comment kept rattling around. To this day, it still rang in her ears.
True, she’d rarely taken the time to go to the singings, even when she’d known Daniel would be there, with so many girls surely vying for his attention. When Aaron and Isaac asked her to ride with them last weekend, her heart had begged her to indulge itself. Somehow she’d heard herself decline, almost like someone else’s voice had come out of her body. Just a little longer, she’d thought. Just wait. When she turned twenty—with her brothers grown and the weight of responsibility on Dat lighter—there’d be time enough to pursue such things.
Tomorrow, that day would come.
Contentedly, Charity peeled the crisp fruit. The fresh aroma filled her nostrils. She offered a bit of the peeling to Bethany. Her favorite part.
Bethany popped the treat into her mouth, then grinned back, the green apple peel covering her teeth.
Charity chuckled. Whenever there was the least bit of a bump between them, Bethany sure knew how to get over it. What a pleasure it was to have a friend like her around. She always found ways to make even the most mundane work fun.
Bethany was a blessing Charity often counted in her life. Like almost all of her immediate family, Bethany’s face was lightly dashed with freckles, set off by a torrent of copper curls that refused to stay in place, particularly when it rained or if she were anywhere near a steaming kettle.
It stymied her that Bethany’s name had never been on the list of published couples either, as much as Bethany hoped to find love. Why couldn’t anyone see what a good wife she’d be?
Charity grabbed another apple. “How did things go for you at the singing Sunday night?”
“He was there, again,” Bethany beamed.
“And...?”
“We had a nice conversation. I almost thought he’d ask to take me home, but... Maybe next time.”
Bethany hadn’t mentioned a name, but Charity knew exactly who had Bethany’s hopes fluttering:
Levi Hooley.
Bethany longed for Levi to notice her. That was no secret. Not with the way Bethany enthused over each and every time Levi tipped his hat in passing, or about the growing companionship between their likeminded fathers. Things did look promising.
“I had a dream about him last night.” A twinkle danced in Bethany’s eyes.
Nobody lit her up like Levi Hooley. “So...”
“So, I dreamed that Levi got all cleaned up, walked clear over to our house, sat my Dat down on the porch, and asked for permission to call on me.” Bethany bounced lightly on her toes. Up and down went an escaped curl. “Our secret, okay?”
“I promise.” Charity had to admit it. The prospect was exciting. Still, she still concealed a measure of concern. The last thing Bethany needed was to have her hopes dashed yet again. Bethany had been to countless singings with as many disappointments. Not once had anyone so much as offered to escort her home in his buggy. Maybe Levi Hooley would be different. Maybe he would be the one for Bethany.
Frankly, Charity couldn’t help wondering if Bethany’s romantic disappointments didn’t owe to Bethany herself so much as they did to her family’s progressive persuasions. Bethany’s father, Samuel Beachey, was a good Amish man, but he and his brother, Caleb, were part of a scant minority within their community whose convictions were a mite more progressive than most. They’d migrated from a Florida settlement years ago, after a hurricane had leveled their property.
To be sure, the winds of change had blown in with the Beacheys, but their ideas hadn’t extended beyond the Beachey’s kin.
Not until last year.
All in all, it had been quite a year in their district. Her grandfather was one of their ministers, so Charity had been quietly privy to quite a number of Opa’s conversations with Dat. Most had to do with challenges the Beacheys brought to their more conservative way of life. It had been fascinating to listen in, especially after Bethany’s Uncle Caleb became the second of their two ministers, alongside Opa, under their bishop.
Bethany’s Uncle Caleb hadn’t wasted any time putting forth his ideas. First, the Beacheys got the 110-volt electricity they wanted and machines for their dairy business. Next, they got cell phones and a few other approvals. Life settled down after that.
Looking back, Charity marveled. Their world hadn’t come to an end. It felt a little like it would, but it hadn’t. Bethany was still there with her at the wood stove, helping her put up canned goods the old way, same as always. Dat still made his furniture by hand. Besides the Beacheys, most everyone else continued with their Old Order traditions, just like the Bright and Yoder families.
Apple-scented steam billowed as Bethany stirred the simmering kettle. She tapped a wooden spoon on the rim. “The strange thing is, when I was talking to Levi at the singing—we were chatting right along, having a nice time. At least I thought we were. Then his brother, Reuben, comes up and gives him this bug-eyed kind of look, like...” Bethany bulged her eyes to demonstrate. “And Levi says he has to leave.” Bethany set the lid back down on the pot. “Do you think it has anything to do with my Uncle Caleb and all the changes?”
Charity wiped her hands. It was always a bit tough to answer that sort of question with Bethany. “Probably not.”
“Probably?”
“You heard the bishop. He told everyone that there shouldn’t be any division between any of the families about whatever gets approved.”
Bethany hiked a brow. “Oh, I heard. I also heard him say how nobody is supposed to judge anybody about any of it, but I still wonder if they do. Then again, maybe I’m judging them for thinking they’re judging me. Then they’re judging me back, knowing I’m judging them for judging me.” She puffed her cheeks out like a blowfish. “Or...maybe it’s just a big screechy cat fight in my head and not really happening at all.”
Charity flustered a little. “I guess it’s hard to tell when you don’t really know for sure what anybody else is thinking. But I don’t judge you, Bethany.”
“I know.”
“Look how conservative we all are, but Dat a
nd Opa, they don’t judge your family either. You know you’re always welcome here.”
There. It was a something of a dodge, but it seemed the only way to answer without getting too far into the one thing they’d agreed to disagree about. Concentrate on chopping. The less said the better.
A knock sounded at the door. Charity’s attention snapped toward the entry’s window.
Daniel.
Charity transferred a mound of prepared apples into a bowl. “Would you?”
Bethany toweled off her hands, then opened the door. She traded an empty bushel basket for the full one in Daniel’s arms. “Thank you, Daniel. I trust you’ll refill this one.”
Daniel accepted the empty basket in stride. “This and five more in the morning.”
Charity cleared a spot on the counter near the sink. It wasn’t easy to be so very nonchalant when Daniel Yoder was around. For some reason, it helped to have something to do with her hands. “There’s another basket by the fencepost outside, empty except for a few stones, I believe. Tell your mother these will be put up and ready for sale tomorrow.”
Daniel smiled back at Charity. “Do you ever stop?”
So. He’d noticed. She returned a wry grin. “I manage to stop on occasion. To sleep.”
Daniel nodded pleasantly. “Tomorrow morning, then. After breakfast?”
Charity hoisted the new bushel to the side of the sink for washing. “I’ll already be off to town, but the boys will let you in, then.”
Disappointment flickered across Daniel’s face as he bade them goodbye and closed the door in leaving. Wordlessly, Charity began to pluck out the freshly picked fruit.
Bethany reeled around to Charity, agape. “It’s as plain as day that he’d like to call on you. Why do you discourage him?”
