Christmas at Rose Hill Farm (11 page)

———

May 1963.
Billy was nine years old. He had found his brothers behind the barn, laughing and guffawing, circled around a metal bucket. Inside was a caught woodchuck. The brothers were taking turns stabbing it with their pocketknives. Billy was sickened by their cruelty and ran to his grandfather's farm. He found him out in the fields and flung himself into his arms, sobbing, accidentally knocking his hat to the ground—that very hat. His grandfather returned with him to the farm and told their mother what Billy's brothers had done. When their father heard about it, he whipped them. His brothers were seething, but silently so. In the middle of that night, they woke Billy and locked him in the woodshed with the dead woodchuck, hanging from a noose in the rafters, threatening far worse if he ever told on them again. Ever since, Billy had suffered from claustrophobia in small, dark places.

All three older brothers vied to be the first, the best, in their
father's eyes—and their father was a hard man, a tough guy, who wanted to make men out of his boys. The little interest he showed in his sons was to bait them to compete with each other. Billy was the caboose of the family, much younger than the other boys, his mother's favorite, and most like a Zook in looks and personality. Whenever Billy tried to gain his father's approval—waking early to milk the cows for him, mastering a new skill—his father would only shrug as if he had expected it all along or point out how it could have been done better. Billy's resolve would only strengthen:
Next time,
it whispered.
Next time
he will notice.

His mother tried to explain away his father's indifference. She said he had a difficult childhood and had faced a string of disappointments in his life. After she died, his father grew even more distant and cold, as if the only warmth in his life had been snuffed out by her death. Billy had thrown himself into working alongside his father, trying to rekindle his interest in the farm, in life. Being obedient, he thought, unlike his attention-seeking, unruly brothers, would be the way to connect to his father.

For a few years in a row, his father had divided up the farm into sections for each son rather than have the boys work together. It was his way of pitting them against each other. His brothers preferred the no-till farming method, popular at the time and less work for them. Rather than plow the fields, they used chemicals to reduce weeds and fortify the soil. Billy farmed his section the old-fashioned way—tilling the soil, adding natural fertilizer deep into the earth, rotating crops, letting sections go fallow to renew their minerals.

Late in August of 1973, the summer before Billy left, he harvested a wheat field, sent the wheat through the separator, and discovered that his mule-plowed field had ended up with twice the amount of grain as his brothers did. Twice! “I knew it,” he said. “I knew no-till was the wrong way to go.” He turned to his
father, pleased at the profitability his methods could provide to the struggling farm. Then he stilled, shocked by the cold, hard expression on his father's face.

His finger was in Billy's face now. “You think you're better than me, boy? You think you're somebody special?”

That became an illuminating moment for Billy. He realized that one person, even a son, couldn't make up for the string of disappointments a man faced in his lifetime.

———

Billy inhaled deeply, as if he could still smell the earthy, hummus dirt from that buried memory. Loneliness was a thing he usually accepted with stoicism, but lately it weighed him down, causing a heavy ache in his heart that he couldn't control.

A
mos Lapp had spent the afternoon searching for the perfect Christmas gift for Bess. He'd walked up and down Main Street, in and out of stores, hoping the right gift would jump out at him. He spent over an hour in a bookstore before it occurred to him that Bess didn't read much. He was the one who liked to read.

It bothered him that buying a gift for Bess was such a challenge for him. He didn't know why—he just could never seem to decide on the right gift. She wasn't hard to please; he knew she would be grateful for any gift he gave her. But he wanted to give her one she would always remember. After all, this would be their first Christmas together.

He walked past the Sweet Tooth Bakery and peered in the windows, wondering if he should get something to tide him over until dinner. The trays in the glass counter were almost empty. A chocolate-frosted yuletide cake stood on the top shelf next to a row of Christmas cookies shaped like trees and decorated with bright green icing. On the bottom shelf sat a lone strawberry-pink birthday cake. Dottie Stroot, hands floury, came out from the back and spotted him. She pointed to the pink birthday cake and mouthed, “Half off! My new girl can't spell,” but he had
no interest in toting around a pink birthday cake. He shook his head and hurried down the street to the hardware store to buy a new wrench.

As he turned the corner from Main Street, he collided with Maggie Zook and nearly knocked her over. She scowled at him and stamped her foot.

“Honest to Pete! Why don't you look where you're going, Amos Lapp?”

“But I didn't see—”

“That's the problem with the world today! Everybody is in such a hurry!”

That remark struck Amos as rather amusing because Maggie Zook had always reminded him of a hummingbird that darted about, never staying in one place too long. “Sheesh, it was just an accident, Maggie.”

Before his eyes, Maggie's eyes widened and her face grew red. Her eyes filled with tears and all he could think to say was, “Oh no. No, no. Please don't cry. I'm sorry. It was entirely my fault. My mind is in a muddle. You're right. I should've looked.”

Amos didn't have experience with crying women; his mother wasn't the crying type and he had no sisters. He rummaged through his pockets for a handkerchief and handed it to Maggie, hoping she would pull herself together and he could get back to his shopping. But as she took the handkerchief, she let out a big sob and he knew his plans had just been sidelined.
Oh, boy.
He looked up and down the street, hoping no one he knew was around to witness Maggie's meltdown. He led her to a bench and sat down beside her, wondering how long this would take.

Her scarf had fallen back and lay in soft folds about her collar. She looked up at him, all eyes, wide and pleading, very pathetic. “I'm sorry, Amos. It's not your fault. I started a job at the Sweet Tooth Bakery just yesterday. Everything was going so well . . . at least, I thought it was.

“Then, this morning”—she carried on with her story as if he had asked about it—“Dottie Stroot complained that I was spending too much time talking to customers and not enough time actually working.”

“Was it true?”

Her brown eyes flashed at him. “I was only making people feel wanted and welcomed. You know Dottie Stroot! She barks at customers if they take too long to make a decision. She scares people away.”

“So you didn't heed her advice.”

“I pointed out to her that being nice to people was part of the job, if that's what you mean by taking her advice.” She rolled her eyes. “I know that I have a tendency to speak before I think, Amos, but I truly believe Dottie Stroot has a bias against the Amish.”

“But you didn't get to work?”

“Customers
are
the work!” She frowned. “That Dottie Stroot is very full of herself. Very hard to please.”

Now things were making sense to Amos. “Any chance you misspelled a name on a birthday cake?” It wasn't a question.

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 Lainey 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.