Maggie nodded miserably. “I was supposed to write Happy Six and by accident I wrote Happy . . .” She took in a deep breath, as if to fortify herself, and her cheeks turned a half-dozen shades of red. “I wrote . . . Happy . . . Sex.”
She cast a cautious glance at him as if she expected him to scold her, but he was struck dumb by the faux pas.
“I know it was embarrassing, Amos, but these things happen!” She wiped her nose with the handkerchief. “I didn’t realize the mistake until the lady—the six-year-old’s mother—came to pick it up. The mother was outraged . . . which made Dottie Stroot hit the ceiling. I ask you! I mean . . . I could have just changed one tiny little letter, but the mother stormed out . . . and then . . . and then . . .” Her shoulders started to shake and she took in great gulps of air before another round of weeping overwhelmed her. “Dottie Stroot fired me! She said I was ribald. Me! Ribald! Imagine, firing me . . . all because of a silly misspelled word . . . and I don’t really count that as my fault.” More weeping.
Do something, Lapp! But what? She’d already drenched his handkerchief. He looked down at her small head, heaving into her hands as if she had just been given news that the world was coming to an end. That was the curious thing about Maggie Zook. She felt things so deeply.
He gazed at her with amusement as she sobbed into his soaked handkerchief. It was hard not to be fond of Maggie Zook. Everyone was. For each moment of bafflement, like this one, there were far more moments of endearment. He reached over and patted her on the back, hoping she might stop weeping soon. Amos was amazed at the quantity of water that ran down Maggie’s cheeks. Wasn’t there a point when tears would shut off, like a faucet?
Finally, her sobs slowed and her lips parted, exuding small, panting breaths. He’d never noticed how nicely formed her lips were, full and rosy red . . . and . . . he had no business thinking that now. He shook off that thought and gave his coat collar a tug. “Maggie, what’s the big deal? So you were fired.”
“Now I have to tell my dad I got fired!”
“Your dad is an understanding man.”
“Not about this. He didn’t want me to work there in the first place. Right after Christmas, Teacher Mary is quitting because of her sciatica, and he is under the mistaken assumption that I would make a good schoolteacher. Very worrying.” Her eyes went wide. “You won’t say anything, will you Amos?”
“Of course not.” Besides, he didn’t care.
She frowned. “I absolutely refuse to be a schoolteacher. I would feel like a bird with its wings clipped. Trapped in a cage. Held in captivity. And don’t even get me started about the big boys in the back of the room.” She shuddered. “Overgrown oafs with cowlike stares.” She shook her head furiously. “Personally, I’ve never seen any earthly reason for school.”
That was reason enough for school, right there. Amos heard her out, but he was not deeply moved. Maggie always did think she was smarter than anyone else and it was largely true. Amos was older than Maggie by five years, but they had overlapped in school and he well remembered her. Everybody did.
When Maggie first started school as a six-year-old, she had missed her mother so much that the teacher had her sit up at her desk, hoping to help her settle in. Eyes wide, glassy with tears, Maggie’s nose just cleared the top of the desk. But as she sat on the throne and took everything in, she started to assume she actually was the teacher’s assistant. It wasn’t long before she even started acting like the teacher—wagging her fingers at the big boys when they cut up, shaking her head in a woeful way when Amos misspelled a word in a spelling bee. A princess at heart, all that was missing was a crown on her head and a pointer in her hand.
After a few days, even the teacher had enough of getting bossed around by her little assistant. She told her it was time to sit with her peers, and Maggie marched to an empty seat next to eleven-year-old Amos. She assumed she belonged with the sixth grade. Amos was mortified.
The teacher pointed to an empty desk near the other first-graders, appalling Maggie. She rose to her feet and calmly told the teacher she had learned all she needed to know and was going to quit school. Out the door and down the road she stomped, bonnet strings trailing in the wind. The entire classroom stared at her through the window, amazed and astounded. She was an instant hero among the big boys.
Sadly, her resolve was quickly overruled. The next morning, her father escorted her to school and sat calmly at the back of the room for most of the morning, pinning Maggie in place at her desk with his steady gaze.
“I suppose I should go tell my father,” she said shakily, holding the drippy wet handkerchief out to Amos.
His hands shot up in the air. “You keep it.”
“What are you doing in town?”
“I was looking for a Christmas gift for Bess.” He glanced at the clock tower above the Stoney Ridge Times newspaper office. “But I couldn’t find anything and now the stores are closing.”
Maggie’s face lit up. “For gosh sakes, why didn’t you say something?” She slapped the palms of her hands down onto the bench as if that was that. “I’ve got just the thing!” She jumped up and grabbed Amos’s coat sleeve. “Follow me.”
They crossed the street to Pearl’s Gift Shop and Maggie went right to the glass case in the window. “There.” She pointed to a delicate sterling silver thimble. At its base was a band of painted tiny pink roses.
“You’re sure? She doesn’t like to sew. She didn’t grow up with a mother teaching her, you know.”
“She might like to sew if she had such a lovely thimble. I would definitely sew straighter lines if I had a thimble like that.” She looked up at Amos. “I think it’s perfect. Just perfect. And you know how Bess loves roses.”
Bess did like roses. He knew that for sure.
But it still didn’t feel like the right gift. He didn’t want to hurt Maggie’s feelings, so he went ahead and purchased it. There was still time before Christmas, he thought, to shop.
When he dropped Maggie off at her house, she talked him into coming inside to warm up, which led to an invitation for dinner. It didn’t take much persuasion. First, he was hungry and cold. Second, he wanted to talk to Caleb Zook about a new idea for crop irrigation that he’d read about in a farming journal. It was after nine by the time he left. He drove by Rose Hill Farm and turned into the driveway, but just as he was about to stop the horse, he saw the light blow out in Bess’s room on the second floor.
A week ago, he would have tossed a snowball up at her window and she would have thrown on her coat to come sit in the buggy with him. But that was a week ago. That was before . . .
Tonight, he turned the buggy around in the dark and left as quietly as he could.
As busy as Bess was with wedding preparations, she found time to dart out to the greenhouse and check on the rosebud two to three times a day, looking for changes, hoping there might be an excuse to leave a message at Billy’s office. The rose capsule remained stubbornly intact, as if it wasn’t going to budge until it was good and ready.
Riehl relatives streamed in and out of Rose Hill Farm, cooking and baking and moving furniture, readying the farmhouse for the wedding tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
In less than twenty-four hours, Bess was going to become Mrs. Amos Lapp. Earlier today, before the relatives started arriving, Lainey had come into Bess’s bedroom with a newly sewn blue wedding dress and white apron draped over her arm and shut the door. “Bess, let’s have a talk about what to expect.”
At first, Bess didn’t know what she meant and opened her mouth to ask when Lainey cut her off. “Sex. We need to talk about sex.”
Oh. Bess’s mouth clamped shut. Easily embarrassed, she felt her cheeks flame. She knew bits and pieces about what happened between a husband and wife, informed by Maggie, who claimed to be an expert in such matters. But Lainey was far more thorough than Maggie, more descriptive, and probably more accurate, seeing as how she was married and Maggie was not.
Nor was Lai
ney at all embarrassed by the topic. She gave Bess a very clear idea of what went on behind closed doors between a man and wife. “All the modesty, all the careful covering up that’s been a part of your life—it’s all set aside when it comes to your marriage bed. God intended for you to enjoy your moments.”
Enjoy your moments. A beautiful comment; permission to savor the gift of intimacy between a man and a woman. Why, then, did Bess feel her heart grow heavy? Why did she feel so sad?
Amos was a hard worker and genuine and kind, fine looking, and she knew he would make a good husband. Bess didn’t want to be alone in life. But she had seen the way Lainey and her father would fall into each other’s arms if they thought no one was looking, as if they were hungry for each other. She didn’t have those kinds of feelings for Amos.
“Any questions?”
So many. But how could Bess even begin to reveal the questions and doubts that were flooding through her?
Lainey gave her a thoughtful look. “Bess, if you—”
A shriek split the air, then silence . . . followed by a mournful wail. Either Lizzie or Christy had taken a tumble, and Lainey flew out the bedroom door to see which one was hurt and how badly.
Through the open door, Bess heard Lainey comfort her daughter and the sobs subside. Slowly, she closed her bedroom door and went to curl up on the window seat. Soon, she would be needed downstairs to help cook chicken and chop celery for tomorrow’s wedding meal. She saw a buggy arrive, then another and another. She heard an uncle’s voice call out a jovial greeting to her father. “Jonah, why don’t we have any boys in this Riehl family? With five daughters, all I ever do is cook wedding meals.”
She saw her father walk over to greet his uncle, laughing. Everyone was laughing, happy and cheerful. Everybody loved a wedding. She dropped her forehead to her knees and sighed.
Bess turned away from the window and noticed her blue wedding dress on the bed where Lainey had set it. Wrinkled, it needed a good ironing, and now, Bess decided, was just the time, plus the iron and ironing board were set up in her room, away from the gathering crowd in the kitchen. And it gave her an excuse to delay going downstairs. She took extra care with the white apron, starching it crisply, because the organza fabric always bunched up on her. Once a crease was ironed in, it was a bear to get out. Bess had to keep sprinkling water on the fabric, then starch. She spread out the new blue wedding dress on the ironing board, and suddenly, as she thought about the wedding, about standing in front of everyone, she felt as if her hands couldn’t stop shaking as they pressed the heavy iron on the blue material. Her palms started to sweat and her heart felt like it might club its way out of her body.
Down the hall, Lainey was the first to notice the acrid odor of burnt fabric. “Bess! The iron!” She rushed into Bess’s bedroom.
Bess lifted the iron and found a dark burned triangle right on the front of her dress. “No! Oh no!”
Lainey held the fabric up against the light and waved it to cool. “I think it’ll lighten up as it cools off. Sometimes that happens.” It didn’t. The triangle shape of an iron remained—not even a dark blue. It was nearly black.
Bess’s eyes filled with tears. “What have I done?”
“I wish there was some leftover fabric to redo that panel, but we used it all up.” Lainey tried to make light of it. “Not to worry. Your apron will cover it up. No one will ever notice.”
But Bess would know. A bride should look her best on her wedding day. She shouldn’t have to worry about covering up a burned iron mark on her dress.
And then she caught sight of Billy walking up the long driveway and heading straight to the greenhouse. Lainey noticed that she noticed.
“Bess . . .” Lainey’s voice held a note of warning.
Bess avoided Lainey’s eyes and set the iron upright on the ironing board to cool. She put her dress on a hanger and the starched prayer cap on top of her dresser, where it sat like a plump hen. She could feel Lainey’s eyes on her and felt a wave of relief when she heard someone down in the kitchen call up to her. As soon as Lainey left, Bess looked in the mirror, smoothed her hair, pinched her cheeks, bit her lips to put a little color in them, and crept down the stairs and out the side door to hurry to the greenhouse.
Billy seemed to be expecting her. He turned and glanced briefly at her as she slid in the door and walked down the aisle to meet him.
He was so much more of a man than she remembered. So tall and filled out. She lifted her chin toward the rose still tucked in the corner. “No real change yet.”
“Slightly measureable. I didn’t expect much of a change with the weather so cold. I only stopped by because I was sent to check out another lost rose in Gap.”
“That’s the only reason?”
“Yes,” he said firmly.
“Was it? A lost rose?”
“No. It was an Albertine, a climber. Old, but not so rare.” He turned and his elbow bumped the pot of a blooming yellow rose. He dipped his head to breathe in its scent and for a moment his face softened. “Magician. Known for its array of colors.”
“Yes. One of my favorites.”
“Magician,” he said, rolling the word around on his tongue. “My father always said—” Suddenly his lips clamped, his head came down with a snap, and he shot her a cautious sideward glance. Enjoyment fled his face. “I better finish this up and be on my way,” he mumbled, turning his attention to the mystery rose.
She stood next to him. “What did your father used to say?”
He crouched down and reached forward to drag the pot out. “Man! I don’t know why this pot is so heavy.”
“And your father always said . . .”
“He always said roses were nothing but fool’s gold,” he said softly, so quietly she barely heard him.
Without thinking, she knelt beside him. She could see his hands were trembling a little. Sensing how hard it had been for him to admit such a thing, she wanted to reach out and touch his hand, hold it to her heart, but she didn’t dare. “Billy, you know that not all men are like your father and brothers. You know that.”
He kept his eyes fixed on the rose. “What I know is that what my father thinks doesn’t matter anymore. And that’s why I want to spend my time doing what I love best—hunting down rare roses. Speaking of that, I’d better get back to work.” With a grunt, he hoisted the pot up onto the workbench.
Slowly, she straightened, watching him. Though Billy tried to act nonchalant, something in his eyes—a glassy look—told Bess he was struggling with finding a way to overcome his prideful nature, a way to turn from the wrongs he’d been dealt and still maintain his self-respect as a man. “Did you know that Simon passed?”
“Bertha’s brother?” He lifted his eyes momentarily and met hers self-consciously. “The one you gave your bone marrow to help cure?”
“Yes, but he didn’t die of Hodgkin’s Disease. He had a heart attack, just like Mammi.”
“How long ago?”
“Over a year ago. Very sudden.” She picked up a gardening glove and ran her finger along the leather edge. “I was always sorry I hadn’t told him some important things before he passed. Things like . . . I had grown to care about him, as salty and blustery as he was. It was true. I even grew to love him, in a way. I meant to tell him. Seems like that’s something that should be told to a person, but . . . there was never a good time. I thought there was plenty of time for that conversation. But then . . . time ran out. It does, you know.”
His eyes flicked to hers, then immediately away. “Are you telling me this because of my father? Because if you are, you can save your breath.”
That sharp edge had returned to him. She wondered what to make of Billy Lapp, so disagreeable and cranky at times, so vulnerable and vague at others. She stood beside him as he studied the flower bud and scribbled down measurements, resisting the urge to seize his hand and press it to her cheek, to make him look at her, really look.
He glanced out the window when he heard a buggy r
oll up the driveway to stop beside three parked buggies, then another and another. A swarm of black-bonneted women spilled out of the buggies and made a beeline to the kitchen. “I’ll be on my way in a few minutes. Looks like you’ve got a quilting bee going on.”
“No. Not a quilting bee.” She swallowed, her breath shallow and quick. “They’re here to help with the wedding.”
The pencil in Billy’s hand stilled for one brief second, then he carried on.
“Tomorrow. I’m to marry Amos tomorrow.”
“Well, congratulations to you both.”
Their eyes met, spoke silently. You don’t mean that, Bess thought. You just can’t let down your defenses.
“Tell me one thing. How long after I left did Amos start to court you?”
“What? Why should that matter?”
His voice was throaty. “How long?”
“We started courting two years ago.”
“So at least he waited . . .” He shook his head, looked away.
She tugged at his elbow to make him look at her. What exactly did he mean by that? “Waited? For what?”
“To make sure I wasn’t coming back.”
“But you did come back.”
He spun toward her and pointed at her with his pencil. “No. No I didn’t. I’ve told you that. I’m here to identify this rose. That’s all.”
“That’s all? No other reason?” Her eyes were wide and serious. “Is there, Billy? Any reason I shouldn’t marry Amos?” she asked at last. She meant for her voice to ring out, but it emerged as a whisper. She held her breath. Everything hung on this moment—her future, Amos’s, Billy’s.
His brows furrowed in stern reproof as he stared at her from beneath the brim of his black felt hat. When he spoke, his voice was flat and crisp, cracking at the edges. “None. None at all.”
She saw how fast he was breathing. She saw him fight with himself. She felt threatened by tears, and she swallowed fiercely to drive them back. Her cheeks burned, and her throat felt parched. Everything in her rushed toward him in a silent plea: You stubborn, stupid, prideful man! Can’t you tell what’s in my heart?
Christmas at Rose Hill Farm Page 11
