A Christmas Visitor: An Amish Christmas Gift Novella

CHAPTER 1

They meant well. All of them. Frannie Mast ladled another spoonful of steaming okra gumbo into her bowl. The spicy aroma tickling her nose did nothing to calm the willies in her stomach. She couldn’t help herself, her gaze wandered down the crowded table past Aenti Abigail and her self-satisfied smile to Joseph Glick sitting on the other side with Caleb and her cousins. A giggle burbled in her throat. Stop it. Be kind. Did Joseph know he had a smear of butter on his upper lip? Did he know her aunt and uncle were doing a little matchmaking? Not that they would admit it. Plain boys and girls were to find their own mates during their rumspringas with no interference from their elders.

Apparently her situation had been deemed an exception to the rule.

Joseph flashed Frannie a smile. A chunk of venison had found a home in a gap between his lower front teeth. She suppressed a sigh and forced a smile. None of this could be construed as his fault. She remembered Joseph from school. He had been a so-so student, but a good softball player and a hard worker. He was easy to look at, with toast-colored hair, green eyes, and tanned skin. He was also the third single man Aenti Abigail and Onkel Mordecai had invited to supper since her return to Bee County, Texas, three weeks earlier.

It seemed more like two years had passed since her arrival in her childhood community after three years in Missouri.

They meant well, but what were they thinking? Joseph was Leroy Glick’s son. Leroy, the bishop. Did they think Joseph would keep an eye on her, too, and report back to his father and to Mordecai, the district’s deacon? Would he keep her from going astray?

She wouldn’t do that. If they’d give her half a chance, she’d show them.

A fierce burning sensation assailed Frannie’s fingers. She glanced down. Gumbo dripped on her hand. The burning blush scurrying across her face had nothing to do with the soup’s heat. She dropped the ladle and grabbed her napkin, attempting to wipe the hot liquid from her fingers.

Ouch! She stood. Her pine chair rocked on spindly legs, then tumbled back. Sorry. I’m sorry.

Child, you’re always spilling something. Aenti Abigail’s fierce blue eyes matched the frown lurking below her high cheek-bones and long, thin nose. Get it cleaned up.

It’s fine. No harm done. Deborah King leaned over and wiped up the soup with her own napkin. Something in her tone reminded Frannie of the way her favorite cousin talked to her two-year-old son, Timothy. Stick it in some water.

Rub some butter on it. It stops the sting and helps it heal. Joseph held out the saucer with the puddle of half-melted butter that remained, still unaware it seemed of the smear on his own lip. He grinned. The venison hadn’t dislodged from his teeth. "That’s what my groossmammi used to say."

Old wives’ tale. Onkel Mordecai shook his head. His shaggy black beard, streaked with silver, bobbed. Mordecai mostly knew everything. Water is best since we have no ice. Go on to the kitchen then.

Relief washed over Frannie. Escape. She whirled, stumbled over a chair leg, righted herself, and rushed into the kitchen. A tub of water sat on the counter in anticipation of the dirty dishes. She shoved her hand into it, barely aware of the stinging skin on her fingers. Gumbo stained her apron. Tomato juice from the canning frolic earlier in the day provided background color. Without looking, she knew sweat stains adorned the neck of her gray dress, like jewelry she would never wear. She was a mess as usual.

Why did Aenti Abigail insist on having gumbo in this weather? Something about soup cooling a person off because it caused him to sweat. This had to be an Onkel Mordecai theory. He had tons of them, each stranger or funnier or more interesting than the last. At least life with him would not be boring. Which was good, because Frannie likely would spend the rest of her life in his house if she behaved like that in front of every man in the district. She wanted to marry and have babies like her cousins and her friends. Like every Plain woman.

Why did that seem so hard for her?

She swished both hands in the lukewarm water and stared out the window at the brown grass, wiry mesquite, live oak trees, and a huge cluster of nopals. No breeze flapped the frayed white curtains. September weather in Bee County hadn’t changed, just as nothing else had. No one who grew up here minded hot weather. They embraced it. Still, Frannie would savor her memories of evenings in Missouri this time of year. The air steamed with heat and humidity, but huge elm, oak, hickory, and red mulberry trees populated the countryside. A breeze often kicked up the leaves in the evening hours, making it a perfect time to sit in the lawn chairs and watch the sun dip below the horizon.

Nee, she wouldn’t think of that. Thinking of those long summer nights made her think of him.

Rocky.

She swallowed hard against tears that surprised her. Rocky was only a friend. He couldn’t be any more than that. Not for a faithful Plain woman such as herself. She understood what that meant even if her parents didn’t trust her to make the right choices.

Gott, help me be good.

Frannie, come out here.

Clear notes of disapproval danced with surprise in Onkel Mordecai’s gruff voice. What had she done now? Drying her hands on a dish towel, Frannie trudged from the kitchen to the front room where her family sat, scrunched together like peas in long pods at two rough-hewn pine tables shoved together. No one looked at her when she entered the room. They all sat, not moving, staring toward the door as if mesmerized by a hideous rattlesnake coiled and ready to strike a venomous blow.

She plowed to a stop.

Nee. It couldn’t be.

CHAPTER 2

Frannie managed to clamp her mouth shut without biting her tongue. All six foot two, two hundred pounds of muscle known as Richard Rocky Sanders towered in the doorway. He waved his St. Louis Cardinals ball cap at her with a hand the size of a feed bucket. Acutely aware of the gazes of a dozen pairs of eyes drilling her in the back, Frannie waved a tiny half wave. Her burned fingers complained.

Rocky cleared his throat and shuffled work boots in the size-fourteen range. Hey, Frannie.

Hey. Her voice came out in an unfamiliar squeak that reminded her of the stray cat out by the shed when she fed him table scraps and accidentally stepped on his tail. A drop of sweat ran down her nose and dripped onto her upper lip. She fought the urge to scratch the spot. Rocky.

No one spoke for several long seconds. Rocky shifted his feet again. His dark brown almost black curls hung damp around his ears. His blue eyes, so like the color of Missouri sky in summer, implored her. She took another step forward.

Introduce your guest, Frannie. Onkel Mordecai’s disapproval had been displaced by the politeness they all were taught from childhood to show guests. Invite him in.

This here’s Rocky Sanders from Jamesport. I . . . knew him up yonder. Frannie couldn’t help herself. She glanced at Joseph. He studied his bowl as if gumbo were the most interesting food he’d ever tasted. He used to come into the restaurant where I was a waitress.

She kept to herself the longer version, how Rocky began to make an appearance at Callie’s Restaurant and Bakery two or three times a week. How he left big tips on small meals and complimented the food as if she’d cooked it herself. How he showed up at the school fund-raiser on July Fourth and spent too much on a treadle sewing machine he said his mother wanted to use as a conversation piece in their living room. Her throat tightened at the memories. Breathe.

Mordecai nodded. We’re having gumbo if you want to pull up a seat.

No, no, I can see you’re having dinner. I don’t want to barge in on you. Rocky edged toward the door, but his gaze remained on Frannie. I’m sorry to drop in without letting you know I was coming. Being you don’t have a phone—not that there’s anything wrong with that. No calls from those pesky salespeople at dinnertime. I was . . . in the neighborhood.

After that preposterous statement, he tugged a red bandanna from the back pocket of his faded blue jeans and swiped the sweat dampening his face. Begging your pardon, but could I have a quick word with your niece . . . on the porch? I won’t keep her long.

Frannie’s breathing did that same strange disappearing act it did when she jumped into the cold water at Choke Canyon Lake. She dared to hazard a glance at Aenti Abigail. Her lips were drawn down so far it was a wonder they didn’t fall from her face onto the planks of the wood floor. The blue-green of Onkel Mordecai’s eyes had turned frosty. Go on, but make it quick. There’s dishes to wash and chores to do.

Frannie whipped past Rocky, catching the familiar, inviting scent of his woodsy aftershave and Irish Spring soap—what she’d come to think of as Rocky smell—as she opened the screen door and led the way outside. To her relief he followed without another word. On the porch, she drank in the sight of him, now that they had no audience. Same tanned face, same little scar on his chin where he fell from a swing in the second grade, same little twist to his nose where he took a punch in a boxing match. What are you doing here?

The words sounded inhospitable. She wanted them back as soon as they fell on the early-evening air. Rocky’s smile faded. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He ducked his head and smoothed the cap in his hands. Like I told you before, I have a bit of a wanderlust. You talked about this place so much, I figured I’d come see it for myself.

A wisp of disappointment curled itself around the relief that rolled