Cover
A Christmas Mourning
Claire Weatherly has come to respect how the Amish of Heavenly, Pennsylvania, value tradition. But not all traditions are necessarily quaint. When a decades-old mystery threatens the well-being of local police detective Jakob Fisher, she’ll pit herself against a community rooted in the past so that he can get on with his future.
When Claire decides to visit the one-room schoolhouse Jakob attended as a young Amish boy, she’s puzzled by his refusal to go along too. As Jakob tells his story, Claire is stunned and saddened by the heartbreaking tale of a childhood mistake that led to the mysterious disappearance of a precious family artifact—and signaled the first break between Jakob and his mother, made all the more painful now that he’s been shunned by the family and community he loves.
Knowing there’s only one way to help heal the irreparable wound that continues to haunt Jakob, Claire sets off to follow the trail of the missing heirloom, never suspecting that it will lead her to Jakob’s oldest friend, a long-ago Christmas secret, and an enduring truth about family, love, and the power of forgiveness.
Title Page
Copyright
A Christmas Mourning
Laura Bradford
Copyright © 2015 by Laura Bradford
Material excerpted from Plain as Day and Portrait of a Sister copyright © 2018 by Laura Bradford
Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
ISBN: 978-1-940846-68-2
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Contents
A Christmas Mourning
Excerpt from Plain as Day
Excerpt from Portrait of a Sister
The Amish Mystery Series
Books by Laura Bradford
About the Author
A Christmas Mourning
“I’m pretty sure that smile could power a few Amish homes all on its own.”
Claire Weatherly stilled her finger atop the rim of her iced tea glass and gazed across the table at the man seated on the other side. “Do you know how long it’s been since Aunt Diane and I have had an entire day together?”
“What? You don’t count helping her in the kitchen at the inn as time together?” Jakob Fisher leaned back in his chair, his dimpled smile on full display. “So do you have specific plans yet?”
Pushing her glass to the side, she hiked her elbow onto the table and rested her chin inside her palm. “We’re going to do a little shopping in the morning, have lunch at Taste of Heavenly, and tour the one-room Amish schoolhouse out on Oak Tree Lane.”
“You haven’t been there yet?” he asked.
“Surprisingly, no. It just never seemed to work out.” She felt her chin bob in time with her quick shrug. “I mean, I know it’s a replica, but I’ve wanted to go inside it ever since I moved here.”
“It’s not a replica, Claire. It’s where I attended school until I was nine and a half.”
She leaned forward, intrigued. “Wait. You went to that actual school when you were little? Seriously?”
“Yes.” He rose to his feet and wandered across the tiny kitchen to the window that overlooked Lighted Way. Even remaining at the table, she knew his view was of the quaint shops and restaurants that lined the cobblestoned link between the Amish and English sects of Heavenly, Pennsylvania. During the day, horse-pulled buggies traveled the road alongside cars and delivery trucks. At night though, any sign of Jakob’s former Amish brethren was virtually nil, with the plain folk—as they were often called—safely tucked away in their homes, enjoying a bit of family time before retiring for the night. “The town purchased the building from the district and my dat and the other fathers built a new one for us to attend.”
For a moment, she stayed where she was, her vantage point making it easy to soak up everything she could about Jakob Fisher. The outside parts were easy—sandy blond hair, amber-flecked hazel eyes, wide, muscular chest, broad shoulders, and the extra six inches he had on her own five-foot-six frame. But as attractive as his exterior was, it was the small-town detective’s interior that truly made her weak in the knees when they were together.
“To the best of my knowledge, the desk I sat in each day is still there. Probably right next to Ben’s if they’re still arranged by size.” He took one last look out the window and then turned, raising her smile with a slightly wistful one of his own. “There were days I’d rather have been home, helping Dat, but most of the time I liked learning. And I always liked recess.”
“From what you’ve told me about you and Ben back then, that doesn’t surprise me.” She stood, gathered their empty glasses, and carried them over to the sink. “You know, you could go with us, if you want. I’d love to have you, Aunt Diane would love to have you, and I can’t imagine a better tour guide than someone who actually attended school in that very building.”
“Nah, it’s your day together. Enjoy it.”
“You being there wouldn’t change that, silly.” She set down the glasses and then turned back to Jakob. “Besides, if you were there, we could ask all the questions we want to ask without bothering other people.”
Leaning against the nearest counter, he crossed his arms against his chest and gazed down at the floor. “There are very few things about my childhood that I don’t look back on fondly. That particular schoolhouse is one of them.”
“I don’t understand. You just said you liked learning . . . and recess.”
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to hers. “And that was true. I did like learning to read and write. And I did like recess. But that schoolhouse reminds me of something I’d just as soon forget.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
She watched a parade of emotions march across his face as he seemed to consider his options, but, eventually, he took her hand in his and gently guided her toward the living room. “Come on. I think this is a story that requires some pictures.”
“Pictures? Of your childhood?” She followed him through the doorway and into the room that had played host to many a game and movie night over the past few months. To her left was his overstuffed couch. To her right was the fireplace with its picture-topped mantel. Jakob crossed to the corner cabinet, opened a pair of doors at the bottom, and pulled out a leather-bound book. “How? The Amish don’t take pictures.”
He motioned her over to the couch and sat beside her with the book on his lap. “When I took the detective job here, there were da
ys when everything just hurt. I’d pass someone I grew up with on the sidewalk, and they’d look right through me like I didn’t exist. Or I’d drive past Martha’s home, see her feeding the chickens, and know I couldn’t just pull over and say hello—to my own sister.”
Hiking her calf onto the cushion, she pivoted her body so as to afford a better view of his face as he continued. “One of those more difficult days, I came home here and threw myself a pity party right here on this couch. Sure, I knew it was going to be like that when I decided to move back here. That’s what being excommunicated means. But knowing it in my head and experiencing it for real were two different things.”
It was, perhaps, the only part of the Amish life she’d never understand. How people could turn their backs on a loved one who’d left for a noble reason like police work was beyond her comprehension. But as Aunt Diane and even Jakob, himself, had told her many times, it wasn’t a surprise. When a teenager or young twentysomething chose to be baptized, they were committing to the Amish way of life until their death. To leave after that commitment was made, regardless of the reason, was immediate grounds for excommunication.
“Anyway, the one thing that always brought an end to my self-proclaimed pity parties was the memories of all the good times I’d had growing up here—on the farm, with my parents, with my siblings, and with my friends. As I revisited certain memories, I found myself wishing I had photo albums like everyone else outside the Amish. If I did, I could see the smiles and the faces that went with those memories . . .”
“I’m so sorry, Jakob.” It was all she could think to say at that moment.
“Don’t be. I made my own.” He flipped open the cover of the book to reveal a pencil drawing of his parents’ farm that was so spot-on she gasped. Loudly.
“You-you drew that?” At his nod, Claire leaned closer, stunned. “I had no idea you could draw like this. The detail is amazing.”
He shrugged. “Before you, I spent a lot of time alone. And my memories are vivid.”
“I see that.” She took in the familiar farmhouse and the fields beyond, the sense of peace she always felt whenever she ventured into that area of Heavenly washing over her from head to toe. “Are there more drawings?”
With nary a word, he turned the page to reveal a sketch of the pond where he’d taught her to skip rocks. Only instead of the two of them standing on the banks, she saw a young boy clad in traditional Amish attire—dark pants, light-colored shirt, suspenders, and a straw-like brimmed hat. Beside him stood a slightly older girl dressed in a calf-length aproned dress. A kapp covered her pinned-up hair. He pointed at the female. “That’s Martha.”
Claire took in the childhood version of Jakob’s sister and smiled. “You captured her perfectly.”
Picture by picture, they made their way through Jakob’s makeshift album—catching frogs in the creek with his childhood friend, Benjamin Miller . . . working in the fields with his father, Mose . . . sitting at the dinner table with his parents and siblings . . . and playing hide-and-seek with a striped barn cat. His narration of the memory that prompted each sketch only made it all the more fun for Claire.
“I love these, Jakob,” she whispered in awe. “It helps me to see your childhood in a way I’ve never been able to before.”
He turned the page again to reveal a sketch of a one-room schoolhouse. In the foreground were a handful of desks of varying sizes, with the smallest ones positioned at the front of the room and the biggest ones in back. At the front of the room stood twelve Amish children—both boys and girls—looking out over the empty desks with their mouths open wide.
She pointed at the boy on the far right and smiled up at Jakob. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
“It is. And that’s Ben on my left.”
“Oh, and there’s Martha, right?”
He nodded. “Very good.”
“What are you all doing in this one?” she asked.
“Rehearsing.”
“Rehearsing? Rehearsing what?”
“For the Christmas program we were getting ready to put on for our families that afternoon.”
“Amish children have Christmas programs?” She heard the shock in her voice and rushed to explain it before he took offense. “I’m sorry, I just always thought the Amish weren’t into . . . well, performing.”
Jakob smoothed the page with his hand and then leaned back against the couch, his gaze all but locked on the drawing in question. “They’re not. The annual Christmas program is really the only exception. It’s a tradition—something the kids and parents look forward to at that time of year.”
“Did you sing?” she asked.
“Sure. We sang, we read stories, and sometimes we even put on a small play. I remember hearing my dat laugh during the skit we did that year and it both surprised and pleased me all at the same time.”
“Wow. I had no idea.” She looked from Jakob to the book and back again as she considered everything she’d heard to that point. “Did you sing carols? You know, like the ones children sing in the English world?”
“You mean like ‘Jingle Bells’? Sure. Only we usually sang different words to give it a more religious meaning. That said, sometimes we’d tell a story or sing a song that included a mention of Santa Claus, just for fun.”
Mesmerized by his words, her gaze traveled back to the drawing and the faces of the children he’d yet to identify. “Who are some of these other kids? Anyone else I’d know?”
Slowly, he pointed to a little girl standing in the front row, mouth wide in song. “That’s Elizabeth. The one I was sweet on when I was a teenager.”
Elizabeth . . .
Elizabeth Troyer . . .
The Amish girl whose tragic death came just weeks after her marriage to Benjamin Miller . . .
“How old was she here?” Claire asked.
“About six, maybe seven. I’m not sure, exactly.”
She shifted her focus back to the younger Jakob—the wisps of hair peeking out around the underside of his hat . . . the suspenders he no longer wore . . . the concentration on his face as he sang with all his might . . . the spoon clutched in his hand . . .
Spoon?
Tapping the object peeking out of his fist, she turned and looked at Jakob, laughing as she did. “Why on earth are you holding a spoon during a school Christmas program? Were you that anxious to eat?”
“No.” With a flip of his wrist, he closed the picture book and set it on the coffee table.
“You’re not going to tell me why?” she teased.
He dropped his head back so he was looking up at the ceiling and exhaled a burst of air. “That spoon—and what I did—is why I can’t accompany you and Diane to the Oak Tree Lane Schoolhouse. Being there would just stir up way too much pain, no pun intended.”
“I don’t understand, Jakob.” She heard the incredulousness in her voice and did her best to soften it. “It’s a spoon.”
Jakob pushed off the couch and wandered over to the mantel. With his back to her it was hard to know what, exactly, he was looking at, but she suspected it was an image not present in one of the half dozen or so picture frames to his left and right. After a beat or two of silence, he turned and raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever told you this or not, but my mamm was raised English.”
She sucked in her breath so hard and so fast it echoed around the room. “Your mother was English?” she echoed.
“Her family lived a few towns over—Breeze Point, to be exact. She had a few friends who were Amish and she’d always felt a pull toward the simple life. Her parents thought it was a passing phase but it wasn’t.” He wandered over to the window on the opposite wall but stopped just shy of actually looking outside. “When she was able, she was baptized and left her English roots behind.”
“I knew the Amish could leave, but I didn’t know people from the outside world could come in.”
“It’s rare, but it happens.” Rocking back on his heels, he leaned his b
ack against the glass pane and folded his arms across his chest. “The one thing Mamm kept from her former life was a silver spoon etched with holly leaves. It was brought out, once a year, on Christmas morning when her grandparents made peppermint hot chocolate. She always said it was her favorite memory growing up. On the eve of her baptism, her grandmother gave her the spoon as a keepsake knowing its practicality would enable Mamm to use it in her new life. When she married Dat and had us kids, she, too, brought that spoon out on Christmas morning just as it had been brought out for her as a little girl.
“And just as it had been for her, that spoon became special to us. It was a link to our English kin, of course, but what made it most special for me and Martha was the way Mamm would smile when she took it out of the trunk Dat made for her. That smile was brighter than any English Christmas tree I’d ever spotted from the back of our buggy.”
She saw the way he swallowed and knew emotion was working its way into his throat, but still she sat, mesmerized by the story unfolding from his lips. “One year, when I was nine, I brought that spoon to school to show my friends. Looking back, I realize that was silly. The spoon itself, while pretty, wasn’t the kind of thing my peers would get excited about. But I guess I equated that spoon with such joy and happiness that I figured others would, too.”
“Okay . . .”
He trained his gaze back on hers and tried to smile, but the outcome fell short of its usual luster. “Anyway, I guess in the excitement of getting ready for the parents to come and see our program, I put the spoon down and forgot about it. Then, when the program was over, I simply climbed into the back of Dat’s buggy with Martha and we all went home.”
“But it’s in your hand in the picture,” she said, pointing at the book.
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